Butter Doesn't Fly

There are butterfly skulls piled
high on the floor of this dank
hovel, they scream at me
through mouths they don't
have not to crush them. I can't
move, can't bear to crush them
can't bear to scream in case I
hear my own voice and know
that I'm alive in this hovel with
the butterfly skulls who don't
want to be crushed and the
flies who stand puking in
corners. I'm in hell and then I
wake wrapped up in blankets
made of butterfly wings that
never got to fly

M P 18/5/21