Marta Owczarek

The water’s calm, it’s nice and dark
There’s no confusing voices.
The legs are lucid, the brains stretched
Out right to good proportions.
The clouds move by as days go past
Rain drops of motivation
The fish are out at sea and flies
Back in the lamps. (They say so.)

Good Morning Breakfast, milled
In green; that’s vaguely continental;
My pillow’s washed and there are not
That many railway stations.
I bought some batteries and rice
And bread and glue and hangers,
Now I just need a pinch of salt,
Some sandals, and a clock to
tick things off,
to pull them out
By fingers and by toes.

So S- or Censor-ly I wait
In dignified conviction
It’s gonna come
It will be back
It’ll see me walking round the right
Streetcorner or a bus stop
It’ll jump red squirrel-like to catch
At loosely-buttoned coat holes.

Or maybe soon
It will shine out
Of a stray ray from
bunched banned yellow flowers
Or grow with hair left on the floor
By visitors in showers.
It could come sneakily in song,
Crawl under screens of peace
Or crashing straight into the loop
At sixty miles per hour.

My feet caught wet,
Cold sweat, the eye
Cascading down machine-wash-style
Have you, or any of your friends,
Been ever brought to silvver?

Get good night’s sleep, a new wall
Colour, prescripted good advice
See ex-people to x-ray why
You now hate each other

Her coffee, tea? without the milk?
Or only bottled water?
Cost right about the good amount,
And what I’ll say won’t matter.

The uncontrolling wave comes up
Just suddenly by dinner
Constraining voice to whisper
The nerves to boil and simmer

It stays stubbornly in folds of skin
Light-black-marketing your manners
Till you’re sadder
Than a roof cat bone
Scotch hop scotching in your bladder.

The night wants to leave,
Stop work and go home
Lie down feet up watch T-V
So time accelerates the shift
And day stomps in, angrily
Some people – they are sour
Like pickles in dill-filled jars
With garlic. Fuckers
Keep their lights on for hours.