Goldfish Bowl

His head swam in a goldfish bowl of agonies
Treacle and grit clogged his mouth
Furred his thoughts
It was the alcohol, he knew
The sickly-sweet nausea of living too
Rotting, festering, flesh-eating from the inside out
That spun him, crushed him
Pulverised his motivation into motionless, quaggy moods
Before departing in a screeching wheel spin
As if roped to a fiery dragster the quarter mile
Delayering through clothes and skin and fat
Through bone and marrow and cells
And light, and more light
His head burning in a white hot furnace
Enough to melt eyeballs and fuse neurons
Bring solar flares on pulsating interstellar winds
To render useless the infrastructure of his brain

(here is where he sighed)

And here is where he took the goldfish bowl and emptied its contents
Spread them out across the wipe-clean vinyl-coated tablecloth
Took tweezers in hand between fingers
And like he was eating his favourite takeaway meal
Of sweet and sour Cantonese style chicken
He picked and rearranged the sickly throat-clogging lumps
Into a picture of past and present image shows
Future and forgotten, repeated, puked
All those childhood memories stored in recesses
Long passed by, discarded, abused
Mistreated, malformed, deformed
The child with the cleft palate, club foot
Hole-in-the-heart and multiple life-threatening allergies
Bubble-wrapped in cotton wool cocoons
Olive-oiled, basted
Rocked to sleep to be, to be
Warmed by a million mother-suns, you know?

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