Not sleeping

I know I’m not sleeping tonight
I know I’m not sleeping because of
the shit. And the six cups of coffee.
But most of all it is the shit which is keeping me
wide eyed, though not surprised. Imagine
a papier Mache soup of faeces and torn tissue
floating about the bowl and garnished with
the skins of two entire punnets of cherry tomatos.
The good ones, which cost three times as much
as those watery pricks and even better when you bake them;
except of course you didn’t get to. Direct
from the delivery van to tiny grubby hands
and swallowed almost whole, the filthy addict.
Popping little red sphere’s like she
can’t get enough. And oh I have the evidence.
I’m elbow deep in it with a binbag wrapped
around my submerged arm as it disappears
fuck knows where. Will I get it back? Who knows.
Will I become one with this bowl of piss
and used food all done and oh I’m ‘SO GLAD
I made her go vegan too’ –
all the fibre super visible down the loo.
But she’s sleeping with cheeks candyfloss rouge
and, even in her sleep, she murmers
‘mumma: I love you’ and
there’s not one single chance I’ll ever
stop breaking in two with happiness
even through a, fucking,
hurricane of poo.


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