Goldfish Bowl



Goldfish Bowl

A dish of cloudy water
and he laughed at me
gazing into the mud of my blue
billowing sheets of claiming smiles
kissing my forehead, patting my frown
reaching for a strand of hair
reaching for my beautiful gown –

Of silver, gold and turquoise-blue
in preciousness I’m clad.
But one by one and two by two
my scales are itching,
peeling – scab
dropping into a deep well
falling, like copper pennies
spinning, tumbling, beyond return
– no wishes to follow them though

Ghastly green fluorescent light
leaking into my globe
eyes so sore, a greyish-matt
the rays of life – an artefact
desolate thoughts, so none of the shore
rocks scraping belly, ascend?
No more.

But daylight is stubborn
bundled hope luring
falsely cheer-leading and patronizing
jeering at me through a magnifying glass
that merely scorches my skin –
the tide will soon be coming in

The waters will clean and wash up the drowned
but all I can hear is the seagulls
distant voices screaming
screeching and accusing
me and the world
me and the waves

I am so tired of combing my hair.
It should have been golden anyway.
Oh, lips?
A never blossomed English rose
I am tired, I’m tired and grey
and wish he would just go away
I’m swimming, no, sinking,
circling and drowning
drowning in a gold fish bowl

© Frances Livings 2008




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