His Name Was PAVLOV

by fabled construct

Posted to Poetry on 2004-04-07 00:52:00

Some of the crushed bulbs
at the front of the house
still flash a little at the filament.
The tapwater runs outside in bits,
seething in the sun
having colours.
I’m knees in head in
the gnarl of a tree,
waiting for the ghost
to move in.

I heard the pipes
click and turn over water.
Someone painted all the walls
yellow, so they’d look wider.

But when I fell asleep,
the floor would disappear
and the ceiling would shift;
scared starved children with snot-black eyes,
making shapes on me.
Gas filled mice dried out in the beams,
salivating and grunting,
shifting organs,
wretching little torsos
inhaling my head.