I took hour-long baths every evening,
drowned myself in strawberry scent,
never licked my lips when eating doughnuts,
let pineapple tickle down my chin,
tightroped chocolate on my tongue’s tip
till it slipped melted into my mouth,
traced tulips, roses, forget-me-nots, thistles,
lamb’s-ears, buttercups, over my cheeks.
I collected old books, skulls, vinyls, shells,
brushed past iron railings, bamboo, wire mesh,
plunged my hands into snow, tissue paper,
and in one greengrocer’s, a barrel of kidney beans.
People thought I was funny
standing half an hour at the fruit stand.
(Their conception that having was enough,
or that rasping lie “mind over matter”.)
I liked the museums of old
took up amateur acting so I could dress up
in the fine clothes, antique and antic.
I cut myself sometimes and had bandages
and tape and antiseptic cream;
I wrapped myself in scarves and gloves and hats,
or other times walked naked – rain or shine.
My bubble mixture abstract thoughts
I could touch.
I built a desk of old railway sleepers
and now write poems there.