https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmTivALNW98
My skin blisters from grey to pink to scarlet. The taste is new on my lips, is coppery, burns my tongue. The air is warm, is black, smells of vinegar acids, as a hand of spindle-thin bones cuts through my own. And through the red-lights here, I want you to walk me home, but you snatch your hand away, you say... and the light frays my nerves, hurts my eyes and then it's over. You're ill; I'm drinking, it's morning...

I thought of the poem with the line about the smoke being a huge yellow cat curling around the house. A clownish figure, measuring out his life in coffee-spoons. He said the idea of bondage made him laugh; conjured up the image of some middle-aged couple thinking they were being a bit risqué in trying to spice up their lagging sex lives with an array of contrived and clichéd devices. However with his mothers apron-strings to hand, I can't imaging him saying no. You say you don't feel fully fledged, then crawl into the womb. You're too scared to agree or disagree or even think about what you want. You say you're scared of feeling trapped, and then lock yourself in your mother's house. It started in a tangled duvet covered in pictures of chubby infants. Mixed drinks and the sticky-sweet taste of vomit clinging to my teeth. Scene two was a damp smelly room: Marilyn, manga and bondage covered the cracks in the paintwork. Day upon day cocooned in a sheet smeared with sweat and make-up. Three month later trudging through daffodils and ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ he talked facetiously about having gone full circle. He dragged symbolism out of football matches and nausea. We looked drugged and battered. I felt him force the roles around, making me nurse him as though the emotional betrayal was something I'd done to him. He caught the four-sixteen back home, leaving me standing on the platform with his sweat on my skin and ♥♥♥ in my hair. "Please keep in touch…" I couldn't see the point.