(box) unhinged


found this old dress

that madness of velvet overdraft

and silk sheen of sweat (90% polyester).

well soon you’ll see I’m no Hester

Prynn, I’m prying - not prim, nor proper -

keep my mouth shut like a gaping doorway.

my bonny step lays

it on thickly in the morning,

gold optimism and naivety butter sticks

to the pan - you could lather it on like

jam, baby you could spread it like soap

(all wrong, but I do it on purpose).


When midi sonne I’m a discount Cinderella, done

for the day on the clock’s sweet spot right where noon

slaps it. His southern sun’s too bright for my

east-lovin eyes, bring on my

hangover headache of post-lunch

blues, you pressed

the word snooze on yourself

one too many times. Your

life awaits in a small box

somewhere, Pandora’s finest,

offering cheap clink of gold when

silver’s always been your only best.


They should know that, but forgetting

to remind them is on you, you stagnating

in cesspool of fleshy tomorrows

with promises of stable-as-mortgage to-do lists

chair boursouflée du jour attendant d’être cueilli

vanilla baby, awaits caffeine hands,

sweaty adrenaline and rare moments

in between to become lean-mean art-making machine.

She surfaces twice a month - rears her scaly head

And is gone, splashing water back in your face

With a sick truth: in bed by 10:30 pm on a weeknight

keeps the brain wrapped up tight, swaddles her up against

the dreaded bark of stark club light.

above you pedestalize

(sounds odd please don’t fantasize)

the Carefree, the Cocky and the Competent

three riders of the End who are not actors

in their own play - grabbing the curtains they’ll

swing into the audience, Truman Show unviolated,

they just are.


Now I am fabricated performance piece

buckling down for another week of bawdy

functional behaviour (and we’re really

scraping the bottom of the barrel, the box)

but I guess that means it’s open - she’s unhinged.


Artwork by Ishika Dutta