This version of Microsoft doesn’t Beyonce

and that’s a fault of the computer and of

myself, sitting under drapes of wet clothes before bed.

The opposite of TV

is when it’s switched off. 
I want to tell you about my dreams but they’re not very imaginative.
i.e.

having a fever / I dream I run late

or we share a bed /

and I dream about our arms.
Here you are: apologising to a white spider

finding it-self, outside a window

one hour before bed.

‘Sorry human perception-’

something Nagel said.
Roll over, wait for an interesting dream.
No two clocks

say the same thing, (flicker-

ing eyes of a TV-movie screen-)

assign a silent kind of depravity

one unanimous minute/ (life is but a dream)
A certain catch of daylight dress

unintended, underneath a bedspread

muggy and apologetic,

I looked up the word visceral;

meant the total opposite.
Movement

in the car you say, men create maps,

get lost-

women look for patterns/ this is non-spatial/

a success.
Morning

I am surprised this windows works.

If you blow on a thing with flyscreen lips

it stings and it will go away.
Collect a semblance,

turning up as a bat

while in waking you walk, your monkey-brain

out evolving itself.
The wake and tuck, scene at a library:

black-fingered undies into hips

Can you watch this-
I never took a lone gunman

seriously.
‘Well if this were a long, long car ride I’d be asleep’

lean into a window, and don’t play Beyonce

It says I like you for

dream terrorism 
Fall asleep at the wheel

a hairdresser’s chair and then-

you are Beyonce or you are not

and one of us can’t take good images

pretty much useless.


Holly Childs remixes this poem for The Lifted Brow portion of this issue.