Jobless

Hope slips between the cracks of a bad day.  
The day before yesterday it mowed down a migraine  
birthed on a wave of a flaneur’s wishful thinking  
I was crafting a pure white forest — no chlorophyll, no need for sun  
  
When the riser crept up the trunks  
it painted the pillars of a golden Indian palace  
Then the window steam deflated my senses  
and the water stain on the ceiling grew monstrous,  
imperious. I limped back to the couch   
in another jobless manuevre.   
  
They all look the same, they all feel the same:  
white, cold, progressive, tatty. 
Every day the chairs resemble me more.  
The curtains ache in billowing rhythms  
They scrape in their wake across inner  
jobless organs. But there’s a TV.   
  
She’s cooking an onion in a black skillet and  
telling us how crucial it is to caramelise.  
We all love the sweetness, don’t we?  
I think I’m going to caramelise myself with  
a dirty little house fire.