Eczema Silo

Eczema Silo

My body, so supple, so new, now
As dry as the Sahara.
Abandoning me, mastering me, this
Sarcophagus of skin cracking me into
A new intensity.
Dazzling days now monotone,
Finial, initials, decline into an X,
With the gentle gurgle and slap
Of a Hydramol or Aveeno
A salve for a deeper wound.
A descent into the Mind
The twenty Fifth and last
Hunger Games

“11:30 pm, Nearly Midnight”


Yacuum is reading a short

Text unpacking Corinthians 11:31,

Judge yourself, then you shall

Not be judged.  The structures of

Law fall away in front of mirrors.

But he clutches a book in his

Sweaty hands.  Sad eyes scan

A room full of smashed tiles,

Broken bottles but the smile

Remains across his lips.


Try and examine, ourselves,

By faith and fervour,

Feeling the truth out through

Frantic confession into a

Bastard reflection.

Philosophy and vain deceit

Is the tradition of Man

But rejoice, for the way is clear.

Just by passing through here

It’s nearly midnight.

Aren’t We In Love?


This is the feeling, (we think)
Such as
Feelings go, a feeling deeper
Than you’re used to, so
Come into the room, and
Sit with me. It’s a simple
Feeling, it is blue and red
And pink and scarlet.
Love, the tablet, passing my lips is
Wine and smashed peanuts
And beery, slippy kisses.
Your hair twisted in curls.
Your heart twisted in whorls.
Come inside:
It’s warmer here.

“The Drunk on The Plane”


There is something so sad
About the drunk woman
Next to me. (Sure, I’ve been there.)
I even have the T-shirt.

There are the loves I
Have seen ground down, and
It stabs at my heart,
Just as the cheering glass coddles it.

The thrashing, fitful
Drunken sleep of the
Middle aged Woman
next to me,

She leans to rest,
First on my shoulder,
Then grabs for my arm.
I push her back.

She kicks the chair in front,
Stretching her legs, then Down!
She headbutts
The chair in front.

She has had maybe
12 of those mini red wines.
She is blotto in Santa’s dirty grotto.
She is feeling fine.

This is where drunks go, to a
Land of spectral simplicity, of
Shadows and rumours and
Yelling night terrors.

I see her later at
Baggage Reclaim #7
(She made it!). She is
Wearing a turkey on her head.

Maybe that was all of it,
Her Christmas Party?
I feel hollow,
And I feel guilty –

Because I know what
Drove her on. Or I can guess.
It’s a sweet smoky dulling of
The exquisite pain of knowing.
No more – and sometimes much less.


Dolls House, Hoxton @deaddollshouse

I never thought to join a doll’s house.
I worried how I would fit in.
Such small places, Arcadian places,
Sylvanian places, so bereft of sin.
I’d never fit in.

Then I heard of another house of Dolls,
Near Old Street’s blessèd Doughnut City,
O Mother Hoxton!, sanctified even through all the booty calls.
But I was too late, (too late!)
To pass through this Gate.
Such a pity.

Rotating lists of food vendors
And dewy alcoholic splendours,
Now locked away from me
Like Doreen’s petty cash kitty.
This Kafka stands before the Law:
Seeking admission.

G. S. Mattu @gurdeepmattu