Sleep needs a third floor
Drenched sheets over an old battered armchair, kiss a pomegranate and place it on the ground this shall be my brain, to grow a phantom child from its clenching seeds, no edible part shall remain. This morning the dawn chorus has been orchestrated, rumour has it that the third floor of my house will disappear only reality knows there has only ever been two floors, yet sometimes in the middle of the night, on the landing strange wooden growths appear, looking like a staircase. I count ninety six steps up to a distant door, somewhere, but before it can belong, finding itself in the wrong place, its gone, leaving something or nothing to become. I remove the wet sheets, in answer to the birds, far off, the faint rumble of thunder brushing trees. Fallen angel Lola formed her prescient words behind ruby red lips the cracks in her makeup beginning to break through, perhaps the slugholed dawn had done its very worst save for a peace declared in the undiminished shallow, where memory revels, prepared to correct any madness. Earth has swallowed the cheekbone she once kissed, taken the line of chin into its mould, where twilight sleeps, broken glass and a bullet, frame a melting tattoo. You'll have to turn this parked car to rust and bitter joy before light cracks through this vicious pathology, where time and cunning have buried a smoking gun. Sunlight breaks through the mist, removing heavens veil, so she could no longer conceal the torpid pit of hell, nor dissolve the thistle flame, burning in her heart leaving its wound that tightens around any empathy Every Wednesday, she visits the seen of her crime, no hope, no cause, only anger at her fathomless fall. That final roll Roll the dice and kiss your arse goodbye forever snake eyes are the mother of your spent nights, as lucky as a dead elephant in a shower room that no longer functions as an unexpected insert. There is something about deaths inevitablility chiseling away like some joyous master mason, who turns out one ice sculpture after another till even the unseeing begin to notice the smell. This is where a demon demands his own certainty a subtle violence or asleep in bed, never to wake, he will take his souls wherever he finds them into that enduring farewell of the gobsmacked There is no demanding the best of three rolls unsettling as it may seem to you in your prime, I'll come and collect what is due to my big cheese there's no sliced pickles or complimentary wine, this is the last line, that final certain punchline. Bio: Born in 1953, Keith Suddrey is a Grimsby-based poet and artist. Now retired, he worked formerly as an art instructor for adults with autism.