I cracked up yesterday at lunch while I was reading a New York Review of Books article about British poet Mark Ford. In it was a poem called “Funny Peculiar” which I present for your enjoyment:
I sit down here drinking hemlock While terrible things go on upstairs. Sweat creeps like moss outward to the palms, And time itself seems a strange, gauze-like medium. Sleep will leave still newer scars each night, or, Infuriatingly, is a curtain that refuses to close. On the horizon, bizarre consolations make themselves Known—a full fridge, a silent telephone. The television quiet in its corner Everything and nothing have become a circular Geometrical figure, seamlessly joined, To be wrestled innocently this way and that Into the most peculiar almost whimsical shapes.
In the meantime, do enjoy your bizarre consolations!