by Aidan Andrew Dun


You know
that stink
which builds up
in the overtired
dimlit kitchen
late at night

Compound of
old sour rice
steaming cocktail
of odours on
nasal blitzkrieg

Palpable wall
of nastiness
naked health-hazard
negative testament
to unstoppable
appetites and cravings

And you know that
hopeless underpowered
receptacle, the
carrier-bag, always
split down one side

Offensive item
propped against
the broom-cupboard
saying: ‘You’re stuck
with me, sunshine
it’s very cold out there!’

You think: ‘It’s too
much! Can’t sleep
in this place:
stink percolating
through like the
flatulence of Satan.’

And you fumble
sleepily with
the door and
go down, glad to face
the cold night-wind
and the stars

Swinging the bag
for joy and
planning your dreams.
Well, the other night
my soul left
the house

Holding my body
like a rubbish-stuffed
dancing for joy
and breathing the
silver-blue air.