The neighbour

from hell has

arrived.  I can’t

sleep, can’t wake,

thinking has become

an extreme sport.

Some indigenous

tribe must have

snuck in overnight

and shrunk my head.

What’s left of my mind

needs defragmenting,

it’s crammed full,

can’t process with

the only available

space reduced to

randomly scattered

tiny specks..

how to think in

dyslexic mosaic?

Post lies unopened

on the bed.

Every decision feels

like a foot in the

small of my back,

minor disappointments

the hands pulling the

laces tighter on the

corset while I look

backwards through

binoculars with smeared

lenses and everyone annoys

the fuck out of me.

I’ve got no capacity

for the mundane,

inane, minutiae

of your life, in

fact I want to

punch you and

your “it’ll get

better after the

funeral”.

Actually it doesn’t.

That’s when it’s

just getting started.