woke up in the wet pink brightness of a make-up room
sprawled out on the floor -
speech fell in through the crack in the door
craned my head around for a look
and a sip of water
in the glass by my shrinking head.
What beat me to near-death in my sleep?
What rotten chemical wormed in and out of my eyes and ears all night
What dream?
A crutch propped up by the door, against a damp pile of rose-coloured towels
the person next to me woke up and it was time to go,
to leave this horrible room was a blessed act of providence
I purged my sins of past years by vomiting bile in the toilet
amidst a sea of purple shower foams, salts and bubbles
“I feel so much better!” I lied, and steadied myself on the table
uniform smiles as we leave in a line -
my hands in my pockets.
The front of the building was a huge glass plate, made of smaller glass plates
the giant face of loss or confusion
the face with a chimney, sick of Finsbury Park
pink-haired girl lead us to the station -
read my poetry yesterday, and enjoyed it apparently
with her chin in her hand, getting older every second
leather-face melting at the sides, out of desperation.
I look down at my poems and feel sick and you're smiling
smiling, smiling, smiling.
Forget the errors because we are all the same thing, varying things,
vastly different and similar things.
I can forget the 'imperfections' and I would, if you'd let me.
Instead, I rode a train underground, ten stops,
glass, glistening in the street, and my shoes old from it.
Always lead back to me, wherever I was.
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