This room’s a darkened mind, stripped and sealed

like a vacant room, or a vacant mind.

A vagrant’s room.


I’m a stranded thought, degloved

on a sinewy mattress. A dim thought

in a yellow plaster mind.


Freakish headlights gallop

across peeling walls

like half-thoughts

in a madman’s brain.


I’m of a mind to go.



with impulses, streets

bring bodies home

to electric houses.


The room’s a dreamachine

and I’m a vision that’s too far out.


Headlights wink

outlandishly at the blinds,

race to the sink

and dance a tarantella over the taps.

Streetlights are blinding

on the top floor of the mind’s eye.


This poem’s an artificial heart.

The room’s open for inspection

But the mind’s closed for renovation.