Analysis of A View From The Floor

The ceiling is swirling,
heart pounding bricks,
sweat creeping down the nose
as eyes flicker like
the cornflake box
and their flakes - lying next
to these cold feet.

The milk still waves
from the table,
white drops amble
toward the ocean of me:
scraping the edges of reason,
looking for sanity
while the chest explores
the boundaries of anguish -
pain coming and going
as breath coughs,
blocking out the newsreader,
her voice just a tone
in the distance of the room.

I could have had it all,
this life was mine to kick,
to smile with and kiss,
and yet, here is the moment,
tasting like snot
on the lip of romance.
Still, at least it is a day off work,
well, forever off work,
stuff them all, let them rot
in their misery or joy of my passing,
I just won't care for I'll be dying still,
these moments stretched
like a bad dream, but reality
slapping the cheeks.
Maybe I'll lose yesterday's food,
ground now into waste,
perhaps it will slip from my bowels,
unnoticed because of my grief,
at least until the stench
joins hands with the cereal:
still showing their curves
to seduce me.

Spiritual existence
now awaits my frowns,
I might catch the adverts
of Christ - wrapping paper
and five pound vouchers
screaming buy me
as I rush upwards,
away from this old shell.
I hope the new one
has a better time than this.

Life - sweeps into death,
they make love slowly,
aroused by my pain,
laughing lovers, and they skip away,
leaving my last thought
buttering the toast I was going to have.