I'd never considered Asparagus a good colour for my bedroom walls,
nor had I thought of walls as a response to my choc-ice lust
but my inner fridge was talking to me today with greater than usual clarity
the penguin of desire had eyes alight with the reflected silver of fresh fish
I had a curious inkling of my neighbour Eric's proclivity for hang gliding
to spy on his languid wife and her walrus-like lover on the beach
nobody said marriage was more than a melting iceberg in martini seas
Oh damn it all, I could murder a sandwich with enigmatic ingredients
or a bowl of frivolous soup that refuses to take me seriously
How I pine for the windswept landscapes of the Ecuadorian Paramo
to be lonesome where the only spectacles are those worn by bears
And yet, and yet, how empty one's life can seem mayhap of a Wednesday afternoon
as minutes limp in frayed bandages to Friday night before unravelling
I envy those smug ones with burning obsessions and self-cleaning ovens
swishing their tv remotes and redefining the shape of the Universe
like a giant cauliflower spinning through the microwaves of space
nevermore will their identities lack unarticulated parameters.