In which I sing the poorest song

Be proud. Be this. Be that. Be another. Be some­thing or other. Be any­thing you want to be, as long as it fits in with me.

You’ve got a crooked eye, you say. It’s not crooked, I say. It’s lazy. It simply can’t be bothered. One day it will close up, give up the ghost, put the cat out for good. You’d bet­ter use it then, you say. I will, I say. I do, I say. I use it con­stantly. Blink blink blink, you may well think. And you’d be right. Blink. I reg­u­larly peel my right eye open from the insides and let my eye­ball drop out onto the mock gran­ite of cheap kit­chen sur­faces in other people’s houses. Next to the toaster, just behind the silver(f)ish tea can­is­ter. I watch it roll, fas­cin­ated. I watch it roll, then I pos­i­tion my gap­ing bloody socket at the end of the counter and wait for it to simply fall back into place with a quietly reas­sur­ing … so what sound does an eye­ball make when it returns to its cradle? I shall endeav­our to find out, through a care­ful pro­cess of elimination.

I have been exper­i­ment­ing with my eye­ball for you. Only ever for you. And for them, because I can never leave the vacant, star­ing hordes out of my strangest equa­tions. Relax. Don’t you worry about a thing. Just you be my prin­cess, and let me be your king.