The kettle is a dominatrix,
watching me with one steaming eye,
demanding coffee with sugar, and a splash of milk.
The kitchen table died standing on its spindly legs.
Strange lesions mark its wooden back
and a fruit bowl crustacean clings to its head.
All the light switches have deformed faces,
without eyes or mouth, only a pert nose
continually sneezing, on and off.
The windows are blind and dream days,
sometimes they weep a million tears
or creak open with a sigh.
The kitchen sink is an alcoholic
who mumbles incoherently about the sea.
It swallows great gulps of Fairy Liquid
singing songs of ocean adventure.
The ceiling is a giant’s hand without fingers or thumbs,
dangling a yoyo light bulb from the centre of its palm.
LATE AT NIGHT
Late at night,
when the moon rolls on its side,
and empty fields mourn history,
dictators kill poets.
Surprised in their pyjamas,
stolen from their beds,
they’re marched to where firing squads
miss their target,
taking one, two, three bullets
to send geckos flying
in the hidden dark.
A wooden-legged school teacher
and two anarchist matadors
are trapped like paper
between scissor-blade headlights.
Lorca, standing apart,
dips his pen in their shadows
and draws their faces
in rings of gun smoke.
The briefest silence
and petty rage
whistles through him,
dragging the poet
from his balcony of stars
into an unmarked grave.