In wee-small hours it�s hard to decipher
cat calls. Sometimes my owl and fox
get wire crossed. Son and bed make exchange
one/big/too/small size impossibility. I
have a head full of ego. Or
no identity whatsoever. LHR is

too damn noisy (even w/out its 5th runway
& despite denials of night flights.) Wind, im
pending storms, The Royals, all make roar
come a-this-a-way. Phut goes my friendly
poltergeist: a light bulb falls onto a bit a
rugg�d floor. Oh thanks matey! Switches

on laundry for me. Dryer drawls
mercy mercy mercy through cottage walls. Shit.
If only It could co-opt the crease cycle.������A
votive flickers on minor spiritual quest,
breathlezzz softly softly lest Mary
gets heebyjeebied by fire. I�ve hired

Phenergen in ages:6-12 dosage and mommy�s
little yellow helper in 5mg.pop. Milk.
I sloppit down my nightie. T�night I�m
Panto Barbie (a little over-aged but ROC�d).
I should�na done my ArtsandLettersDaily
�������������������������������������������������thang � � � links

drop blue blueline blue blueline at least Phd. level
terrorists, identifits, security forces, alerts on and on
and on the world chatters threats at me.
There�s diarrhoea down my white space. Oh God.
Here am I with no face on, my baby drugged,
my lousy childhood unpreparing me for intimacy

on any meaningful level, with only a ghost
for company. Not even any dead flowers
to throw out. Or dogs to shout at.
Who scarpered over an hourago and by now
have probably legged the A380, a machine full�a
shrivelled smalls and a Px for a shorn-off shot

gun in my dresser draw.
I should be so lucky.
Target practice: start with �News at Ten�,
gotta be. Then now, let�s see: blast his
immaculate lawn next door full of holes.
Leave a few rounds for the ex.

Brigitte Jones Diary looks like �How To
Prepare for Sainthood� compared to this.
There was that programme on TV last
week about women just like me and it
would have been funny but we�re the lucky
ones.

All I have to do is
Rest,
Breathe,
Focus on My Heart Space,
Do a little Chakra Massage,
Check My Child�s Still Breathing,
Remember

there�s a glass bomb waiting to be stepped on
in the dark, oh And a ten ton pressurised
explosive can flying overhead (below the permitted
decibel level of course). My doggies

�ll be fox-pooh nerve gas.
Ollie the Owl�s bird-prick large
enough to shut-the-fuck up Mrs. Owl.
The men are in charge.
At least one of us is screwed.
Tiddles will have spewed up rat caul.
Ah all�s well that has any end at all.



�2006 by AnnMarie Eldon