There was the time she posed as a proper person,

up at seven with organised eyes,

spinning the wheel of coffee heart and computer clack,

a life in neat multi-coloured folders.

 

An alarm went off in her pocket—

and now the world stank of Boots’ perfume and cigarettes

she spoke in fluent Bacardi Breezer

knew every bar in South East London

flew through the day to get to the pub on the other side

until life became a barman that would no longer serve her.

Men with magnet mouths waited for her to exceed her limit

found ways to climb inside.

 

Now she sits like a stale buttered scone

who nobody wants  to pick up or eat

or even look at that way.

 

She thinks this is delicious and funny at the same time.

Continue reading “Sing a Song of Ever Changing Perception by Michelle Diaz”