don’t know if I can live with myself. It’s
tricky. Damn my moods, the forgetfulness.
Hanging a sign outside my skull: for rent.
Mexican dances for the dead. Forget them.
Shelves lined with mix-tapes, coffee pot
forever mouldy. If it’s all the same, I’d
rather squat on grass. Those shirts from
the late 1980s we hoarded, that paisley.
A cask from last week’s costume parties.
On a whim I visited my grandmother, then
I applied for a flat I’d never seen and
was successful. I’m moving in next week.
Utilities connect themselves, off-peak.