Stagnant Algae

I love that there is nobody home
and that every step dashes it further into predictability
with anglesey and marina,
our two lovers have seen a new beginning which will run out.
White round necks run around in the dark, drawing my eye,
sweet Jesus you're appealing,
I need something to drown out the white noise, white colours,
white cotton fabrics and white animal festering liquid that stands in refrigerators
self-righteously.
I hate dairy,
why can't it leave me alone? And vivisection will never be the answer
to the rage of a nation
and illimitable humanity that drips onto fruit
and snakes and who knows how many pieces of futile paper
or cardboard or tissue, crumpled,
sobbing from disuse and stinging a little in the side.
Like the toy doll on a stick that licks our mental wounds- our empty rooms,
in yellow sickly houses with blue and red rugs which lie
in the silence, deafening the old and driving them into inertia.
I remember. I remember when marshmallows were the only problem.
When car parks were the setting for intense joy
and now the ticket price strikes twice with glaring eyes
while I watch my quaking, ruptured thighs
that wish just for once to become ocean to bare pain for my own personal gain.
Labouring under the illusion, of course, that everything early was pure.
Not a battlefield but empty, and I know,
if I squeeze a little that I am wrong. I was still full of melodrama.
But water means nothing to a man who owns a tap,
plughole and bathtub full of dirt.
A worm pushes clods of mud to find a delicate wisp of opaque plastic,
clinging to a docile strand of glass, or grass, with ambivalence,
and suddenly mutating into an enormous god and devouring it.
Endlessly.