March Hares & Hatters.
Black ants, random thoughts
swirling out of a hole in the head,
swarm the path, the disturbed in disunity,
clouding their purpose with pure chance.
He feels the cool water trickle throatward,
it runs through his teeth, cools his hot tongue.
It would be nice to hold the cup, he says,
but it’s for my own protection, isn’t it.
Smiles returned – see how sane I am, he thinks.
I know you have key bunches that grow from your belts,
I hear the clanking of tin fruit in nights corridors,
when the stars flick ice at me through barred windows.
Where do you go when I can’t see you, he asked the doctors,
but never got a straight reply.
Why do I always have to think, he thought.
Thoughts that never stopped, drip, drip –
Like the tap he ripped off his mothers sink,
it wouldn’t stop, deserved to be ripped.
But where did all the water come from
when the tap was gone?
Then she wouldn’t stop shouting – shout, shout.
Where did all the blood come from?
It all mingled on the grey floorboards - a water blood flood,
but where did it all go?
Nobody would tell him big secrets like that,
just locked him up with bunches of keys
that grew from their belts.
The ants were still out, still swarming –
as for the doctors, the last time he saw them,
they were trying to put the Dormouse
into a teapot!
He lay back, listening to tin fruit jangling
in night’s corridors,
taking care to avoid the star-ice.