bring your sledgehammer
bring your mallet
bring the cannons
bursts of sunlight with nothing to cling to
dribble over soft surfaces
and soak into the carpet
we’ll need the hammer
the crow bar
and the meat tenderiser
I’ll find the jackhammer
sea swallowing the ceiling whole
purring white noise and sand sweep
that sounds like ‘stay’
we’ll smash this place to pieces
blend our bones
crash faces like waves
and break all these walls
I am no prophetess.
Here, with my glasses off,
I can’t see beyond my own face
Let alone the future.
So here, I’ll predict the past.
I see the mountains held under the waves by God
(the infinite teenager, almighty prick)
and pulled out by their roots of their ferny hair
left dripping and sneezing
in the toilet-seat dawn.
I see the fires set to bubbling in the earth
by Gaia, middle-aged and three seats wide,
sitting giggling with a napkin and a ready teaspoon,
to crack the caramel crust
of the vast desert sands.
I see Cerberus straining on his thrice-woven leash
for the billions of pounds of fat, wet meat
that is us all – three heads
dripping spit and his high dog whine
singing on the wind.
I see Neptune raise his trident too high
and with those three bold fork tines, pierce
the sleepy burnt toast firmament.
Our skin spits out melanin,
to remind us of the stars,
and I match Orion’s belt to the freckles on your arm.