Chaos

 

lives and multiplies under the bed

and the back of unsorted cupboard junk;

it thrives in the overstuffed unaired wardrobe

and sweeps itself under the carpet

hoping for a flood or a plague of cockroaches

 

It gorges on mould and bacteria in the frigge

or hides among the pies and comfort junk food

sniggers from the mirror at the looming bulge

over your waistband.

 

It peers at you from the back of a dirty shower

curtain, celebrating the creeping rise

of the bathroom scales.  It sneers from

the beer dregs and discarded needles,

 

hovers, gloats at the edge of a failing relationship

swells with your tears; then teeters, giggling

on the brink of your dreams, urging them

into nightmare.

 

But its favourite habitat is the battlefield,

the tanks, the guns, the terrorist's bomb

and the reek of despair.