Take Care

The caretaker is sleeping
in the 1st floor maintenance room
dreaming of his past lives
in a pile of cloths and bottles,
head on his shoulder, drool
growing on his chin like a plant.

He rockets through clouds
of incredible colours,
his first night as a father
is swallowed by a liquorice mouth,
comes back garbled in a language
that his forefathers spoke.
A chocolate tyrannosaur stalks
out of the pond he fell into
as a child, or still has yet
to fall, tears right through
his first day at school.
His 18th birthday party is eclipsed
by a white tower that falls
trailing red curtains, stink
of turpentine and dogshit
that dances like the alphabet,
redecorates his eyelids
with streaks of squealing guitar,
changes his nature left
that had slouched to the right
every time he drank vodka
or quarreled with his wife.
He finds himself a stranger,
on a dark street corner
draped with angler fish,
converses with himself as the war
is exploding in the sky overhead,
reaches for his shadow
and cuts himself a suit.
They both go attired
in the other, until the world
is looking in a window at its organs,
the eyes into themselves,
until the animals lose silence
and scream violent obscenities aloud,
lose their natural love,
begin to murder one another.
The caretaker is left in a high chair
floating a mile above the Pacific Ocean,
which glows bright white
with a thousand eels
and the burning shapes of whales.
The clouds move, a steel crown
comes down into his hands.

He wakes up in the diluted light
of the maintenance room, notices
a bright blue bush is growing
from a small black hole
in his plain blue overalls,
and wipes away his drool―