I’ve been shooting glances out of my mood rifle,
colouring in the sky with a bright yellow crayon,
and making a paper smoothie from the resulting picture.
I’ve been digging at my foundations with an ice-cream scoop,
breaking bread with emptiness,
and sweeping away the crumbs with a machete.
I’ve been thinking twice before breathing,
clapping with bricks and glass,
and boiling clocks for dinner.
I’ve been shouting insults in a graveyard,
writing the words of my headstone in a car park,
and realising that this last stanza needs a third line.