Wooden, coin-cut-out boards fit as stilts                                 into a slot machine of toys, of silver;                                     Metal tin creatures who spin in scissors,                                 on a marble texture that gleams in the crimson light;               of a candle that burns golden                                               in the gloom of night.

Jerking its movements like a fallen pair of scissors,                 it folds inside itself,                                                           and does a wicked dance of doom;                                       of black, printed limbs that                                                 Scatter across the shadows of shapes                                   that move across the fading wall.       
Shy; startled, it bulges its zombie-shaped eyes; and gazes       out of its tiny eyeballs into the illuminating light of                   the room, the door that stays closed forever.
Crooked wooden limbs fold inside,                                         the jerked movements;                                                       of the clockwork doll,                                                         its ruined black eyes gaze out in spite;                                   blood drips down its clown-shaped frown; and the red circles on its face illuminate, in the dark storybook of terror;                                                                            of carved paper dolls that line like                                       robot servants in                                                               , the obscure words of the Gothic.

Its eyes peer; peek open in its                                             poured sawdust of pain, that scatters                                     inside the room; like stars, that darken                                 in the sharp, edged sprinkle of glitter;                                   of its handmade creation; of its                                           plastic label                                                                       reading its name                                                               , its shame.                                                                                                                                          
Its bleak; black strands of hair snip, snip, snip; they fall           from its ruined, scalped head, and its                                   peach pink nakedness; stands as a classic photograph,             of an ancient box;                                                             and a lost haze of maps.
Its fire-lit; agitated rhythms shake                                       and pass through a black; burnt-out oil                                                                                    lamp, and                                                                       its shudders of breaths, of life;                                             shimmer and sleep through a round,                                     shadowed door; and its playdoh bones,                                 they tremor; and they break; and they line                             up along the wall like skeletons, like piano                             notes as they project                                                      and cavort from the                                                           shut, wooden bed                                                               ;that plays its muse .
The carousel music box sings; in a lyrical beat of music,           in a sympathy of theory,                                                     that jumps  and leaps,                                                         through the little house; its opera-like beats of sound, hum       and harmonise through the homemade room;                         and its stitched handkerchiefs fall on the little floor;                 in a tissue of flowers,                                                         in a petal of pure white.

Tall; shaped like                                                                 a thick black vase; its paintings                                           of canary daises, link                                                         up through the pasted design,                                               and the white-and-black oil glue, holds                                   its paper shape;                                                                 its tin-can numerical holes                                                   that shade in a toned,                                                         raven-painted letter                                                           from amidst, its hollow; open mouth, 

that pours out                                                                   a scattering of paper; that                                                   chains in a crown that                                                         flowers, that writes                                                             in its new name;                                                               its new flame                                                                     of melodies, that                                                               arise in an                                                                         ash of;                                                                             red and                                                                             white and                                                                         pink.
A hand –solid, made-                                                         up of skin                                                                         and bone,                                                                         and flesh;                                                                         reaches out from                                                               a gloom, an                                                                       early projector;                                                                 that controls the                                                                 light that breaths                                                               in shadows, a                                                                   hard; solid thing                                                                ; anonymous, and                                                            places it in,                                                                   the textured house                                                             ; and                                                                             all is                                                                             still                                                                                 ,it lies                                                                        still;                                                                              as                                                                                   a doll.