The sunrises over Glasgow are filthy yet beautiful,
Like spiders' webs sprawling across a vast industrial complex;
Dew-covered spiders' webs on the purest of fresh mornings,
They are grey yet inundate the skies with colour.
I went to a painting, or a painting came to me -
I don’t know which, but I ascended several ancient steps
And my jewellery fell away; I was slipping out of seawater.
The man in black with tousled hair gave me consolation
And creeping dread. I often sleep dead when I witness
Things of sexual import that motion to crumple me up
Like a thin plastic cup or the paper wrapping a hamburger.
I choke on my words when I’m afraid they’ll carry meaning.
Every Friday evening I watch the globe go down
Over myopic utopia: one beat in eighty-six thousand
When I am free to end up shaking in a swaddle of wax
That melts to smother my face in cadmium.