It took Plath less than twelve to boil her head.

The skinny clock hand that creeps around so fox-like

Doesn’t care if you made it all the way to the

Platform, just one hair after the last train home

Slips away, slug in a rug, down the chimney tunnel.

And like the cheeky alarm clock that taps its little

Toes all night long, like the fractures that creep

Their way into bingo-playing bones, it’s coming for you.

While your tea turns to a swamp and your cornflakes

Turn to baby vomit in their bowl, it’s coming for you.

So kiss me harder next time, because it’s coming for you

And don’t let your beer go warm like you have done.

Because it’s coming for you, and there’s no way of stopping it.