(read by another poet)

conversation with a kitchen sieve

at the exact moment i started flirting with a pair of alice-blue eyes on a

shampoo bottle, a flock of rice krispies hurtled past, kicking up a dust cloud.

i love breakfast, that's when i relax, attend to hole hygiene, never fly off

the handle at grumbling tea eggs, butter knives, slices of toast going "wheee!"

nobody bought eggs today, the mirror said. "zero and counting." according

to market researchers it has nothing to do with bird flu, but with wet mondays.

mirrors! what a vain lot! as if everybody did not look straight through them.

they remind me of spaghetti, never loved for their plain jane selves.

noodles cringed at the sight of me, i heard their wheaty whispers: "it's her,

miss pasticide!" some jumped, ending up as mrs berger's basket cases.

no gory details! i'm sure her shaving cream got on well with the farfalle.

squish! i still recall the day the moths camped in her permafrost hair.

crisp bread rolls lisped "pleathe", languid vegetables probably had a hidden

agenda, though it was hard to tell over the humming of the cheese counter.

broccoli is putting on airs since voted greenest veg by your cast-iron wok.

put me under great strain the other day with their "that's broccooli for you!"

i was quite breathless when i realised that trolley wheels always creak

muzak backwards as if stuck in some time loop inside a viola's belly.

when you played schubert in error, violins became my friends. they're almost

as empty as me, though their temporary freight smells less of boiling oceans.

the check-out girl was composed of metal, two-tone hair; domino on legs.

she twittered digits, coughed change into my hand. my purse opened, shut.

holes are the opposite of nothing, they make me incomplete. hear the drip?

and i would so have loved to call my children asphodel, all nine of them.

Everything you said about love

makes sense. I can almost taste

your fear, feel your pulse quicken.

I want to ask you to hold me

but I'm scared your hands might

tremble. I'm not that strong --

limbs like wet tinder,

my wings suddenly frail.

What could be worse than this:

accepting unspoken goodbyes,

certainty that all clichés are true.

Empty minutes spill onto the bed;

already we are drowning.

In the light of a frigid August moon,
your window frame casts a cold,

razor-sharp shadow on the wall.

It won't be long before you drive

slender nails through the palms

of my restless ghost.

conversation with a stainless steel wire whisk

depilation was the first word i heard on the train; the dingy orange
seat wheezed it out in large brown letters every time i crossed my legs.

angels have hairy wings, that's one lesser known fact about heaven
since all illustrations fled from the bible after the sandwich supper scandal.

announcements were made in running colours, particularly a wet cobalt
with puckered lips that went after every man exuding erotic competence.

i always thought lapis lazuli would complement my complexion.
just my luck that the great eggbeater in the sky vetoed blue foodstuffs.

it was obvious that someone had tried to sleep upside down during
full moon; you can always smell it on their breath when they hiccup.

phantoms are getting stronger by the hour. it's all those anabolic
steroids with fancy names containing elements that end in –one.

at the third stop a gypsy played the concertina. his music limped along
platform 7, sneaked into pockets, switched off ipods with a crazy chuckle.

nobody makes music like me, not even that red-haired fairy queen with
her plethora of shoes. her voice may peal, but she can't beat my rhythm.

i am sure little old ladies with well-dressed lapdogs spilt infrared light
in noisy compartments, innocently humming that sexy song from gilda.

ah, remember when i met francine? our wires crossed in your yellow
super bowl, but there was no misunderstanding that wysiwyg girl.

cranky kids turned to stone before mad max impersonators, doors
closed with well-oiled burps. mrs god giggled in the luggage rack.

sudoku is to train rides what tina turner is to the australian desert.
slender-legged sevens govern. at the end of every page: denouement.

Angie Loves Nigel

She blinks herself into
his dreams, leaves 23 words
on his answerphone:

We already share
four letters, won't you let me
touch the fifth?

Can't we join my soft
round a, your long sleek l?
hangs up with a sigh.

On her way to school,
birds twitter that other girl's
name, trill pristine i's.

Drilled by wind, oak
leaves spell NIGEL in the sky,
spineless and brown.

Angie puts on her rose-
tinted glasses, heart-shaped,
carries his books.