I fell in the Thames with all the rest. Sequined water. Street light fishes curled and copied in yellow and pink look through a frame on our bedroom wall.
My room, trillion flowers, dolly mixture wall paper, girl time grown out of it an hour ago. She thought she was thinking of nothing, tracings of shadow trapezes, glassy light. You'll be tired of tomorrow when you get there.
A spider all eight legs on my pillow, away in kid room. I squeal, a spider in her hair nest, asleep, his house till marmy night. Clever legs, I counted all eight stepped on candlewick. It was a dropped eyelash longer than seven years old under her pillow. I couldn't sleep with him in there tonight, he'll crawl all along me and she'll wake up with a spider eye patch if I don't go blind in the night.
Put me to bed like at Nana's house on two winged chairs. A head and two feet between stretch nylon tombstones. He has a hot toddy, a girl licks a strawberry jam tart before the lamp goes out.
Summer sinking away on pin cushion tongue. The gels in fever place slide over Rothko window. Syrup wading and face starched balloon. Maroon and indigo bricks my window. Day and frames overlap. Serrated bubble in my ears. Raspberry pop, ripple ice, contraflow worming. Palma Violet wants to be the fisherman's friend. Peppery taste under-paint, fanlight catch uncaught.
Do you remember talking to me last night?
I could hear you, you were sitting up on the pillow.
I told her about black candles.
Oh, where do you buy them from?
Satin edged hay bales. Menthol trails.
Mum and Dad are awake, smoking on the stairs. The drenched bloater next door is beating up his wife.
She was round yesterday, said if that wall wasn't there our headboards would be touching.
Margaret, Margaret, I'm dying.
Fucking well die then.
Black dog nearly got me, the other side of a time saving appliance in a melamine precinct. Two men, shoulders cocked at the door. They must not come in. I'm on the floor rug barking, most effective, being a dog.
Bed time Lisa love.
A starling digging for spangle beads, they pop out of the terracotta one at a time, jade by citrine, a fine imitation of fog horn ear hoops, take them out before you go to bed.
Sleep is for dreamers on a Saturday night. A crazy diamond cuts a halo around the girl's door, iron butterflies skid on petrol filings. She played with Abraxas all afternoon, but don't ask me what I think of you. She was taking her vows from a ruby plastic dagger stolen from a glace cherry.
Tucked in tight and I can see the talcum man is outside my door. He's expected, I've known him since where's your mamma gone. Mum will say she sees him too, a long time soon. Seventeen. Loft cover, rope drop, pendulum man. Shadow trapeze. Tick- tock. Forty five degrees darker when I've stayed awake more numbers than him. The moon opens wide and I fall in. Dropped eyelash. Stretch nylon tombstones. Spider eye patch. Catch uncaught. Menthol trails. Sequined water. Too much moon. Kid room.