Throne

Growling incubus, I sit
at the top of the stairs
in a blood red armchair,
staring at the lilac door
of the boiler, runnelled
with whitewash like come.
It could tip over forwards
with the slightest breeze.
Like a jesters top, inside
a supernatural well, spin
the sounds of my house
around my ears, snatches
of song blooming, pipes
gush. In the toilet bowl
a braindead fish smacks.
The staircase bows
like a willow branch
underneath our feet.
Still among all this,
the stink of the mouse
that got crushed dead
between the white wall
and the blue bed.