For £1 you can buy the past from a vending machine in an unending corridor.
We’re sipping pink wine in the sky above your favourite city.
We’re watching musicals and ugly crying, discussing
the practicalities of only serving marshmallows wrapped up in silk.
No. We’re in that one about the dying.
With thingamy and the popsicles, the regression and good punctuation.
The nurses turn your pain
and it’s the sound of deep mauve, hollowed walls. Every four hours
is mid-afternoon or 2am. You keep a mint in the pocket of your cheek, choke
on the soup with those tiny ring noodles, strawberry tea;
eat Valencia orange ice lollies in bed – such decadence! Like summer
or childhood. Between your fingers, swings a pendulum and falls.