Kristen de Kline #71 - It was never about the bloody coffee

it always happens while I was away
sex is rolled out like washing baskets
ducks in a row      bang bang bang
the day pretends     but what does it pretend
the olives are fried     green
skies turn from a burnt tangerine shade to a blurry
bluey-green     out of focus

bedroom doors mosquito nets window panes
none of them     know
what's happening     while I was away
in his poem there are days of uneasy truce    
but they're limited to the fingers on one hand
days months years     clash violently   in my burnt offerings
there's little peace in the foreground      only photographs dangling
on bedroom walls     not going gently
like a guillotine

while you were away
a Manager with lens the size of Coca-Cola bottles
asks me to limit my presence
to step across the dotted line     to the other end of the building
who have I become now?
Colonel Mustard in the drawing room with the noose?
another     mad poet     with priors (growing)

Dear Manager, what does that mean 'limit my presence'
breathe in breathe in again lose weight? wear less clothes?    
piss off     somewhere anywhere      
limit my presence to the one building the dying light
random spaces     where caffeine
is sadly lacking

I don't know what the days do while I sleep
or where the nights run to while I'm wired
I don't know why I go to sleep at midnight and wake
on the hour at 3, 4, 5am
no it's not the bloody coffee remember I'm banned from even ordering a double shot
already a poet with priors this latest request to limit my presence bodily functions caffeine intake
what can I say? it's doing my head in