At dawn
Clockwork orange birds
Are vocalising
In alphabet steps.

A husky Russian pop star
Chants in techno opera
From my teen’s room.

It’s life
Like the infinite low planes
Orating over our
Eternally hunted dreams.

And I am eating
The cold war
From a retro teacup
With a powder keg spoon.

I must go to work
But there is a Rusky boy
All cinnamon fur
And snow village
He’s Skyping her bedroom
From his phone.

(He wants to come)
(She wants to go)

These hours stretch
My teen’s stiff limbs.
But she tinkles
The lingual basin
Where water echoes
Rusty copper phlegm.

In minutes my teen
Is clanking her plates
While the first v-vooms of the day
Glide their way
Into hoarse concrete tunnels
To hum the city to life.

She is
Toast crunch hovering
While my Chekhov eyes die
A ceaseless death
Brought about by
New mascara
And old insomnia.

These moments are all
Mop haired hoodie
Until she claps
Her sleeves together
Like [end brackets]
And says, if to scoff
Do svidaniya, Timekeeper’—
Blin! The goat eats the wolf.

And the trumpets verbose
DO-svi’ ‘DO-svi’
As Shakira sings
‘Oh, baby when you talk like that…’
And my mind goes
‘Mr Bombastic’
With all the morning songs.

It is 5.25AM at home
And this day has just begun.

c. Wendy Beach, 2016




2 thoughts on “5.25AM AT HOME

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