I give my eyes to the stairs as I ascend,
They seem not to be steps, steps, steps, steps,
But one sheet of inclined metal
Willing me to misplace my left foot and slip.
It may just be the lighting;
The insomniac bulbs that are so dull
It's as if half had been stolen somehow
Or fell alseep in quiet protest to their ceaseless use.
That drone, that is the consistent hum of their snore I guess.
At the top I enter the bedroom
Under a family-tonne of scowls, - screwed up noses,
A lazy eye - hanging framed on the wall.
It makes them unadorable; those sweaty wrinkles are permanent.
The shadow of my brother makes me
Look strange-ish in that photo,
A sort of grey, like death black
Diluted with a cup of pinkish humour.
But the sun cremates itself
And night, night, night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem