Steve Jobs and Your Death

(the 6th of October, 2011, London)

In my dream you were dead.
I touched the gray stubble
You were a pierced membrane and the exposed core
Reminded me of that
Frog I had to pin down and cut open
In Biology class
Of my surprise to find no blood - just the
Gray nerve threads. I do not know what I was looking for.
I was looking for an offering, an experiment
A rehearsal.It was neat.
Yes, your skin was like the bleached shell of an egg
I lied. I didn’t touch you. I got up as I couldn’t de-tangle you
From sheets and duvet, from your own body heat.
I wasn’t surprised to be alone. It was as if the morning
was a page torn from a book and I was missing some sentences.
When does the panic set in – the feeling of being wrapped up in loneliness as in a new skin.
At what point do you suppose you feel your fingers shrink as the delta of blood abandons extremities, to pool inside,
in response to some invisible thermostat set on "cold"
I had an urge to bounce on the bed,
to land hard on your chest,
to let the daylight in and slam the toilet seat.
Maybe provoke you with some pungent smell of bleach or shout in your ear.
But I stood still, imagining the foolishness of shouting into the receiver of a cut-off telephone.
You’ll forgive my hovering around the bed -
how do you not stare in the afterglow of a supernova.
And then you got up, but hang on it doesn’t end there.
I needed to know – the exact date.
I had it stored on my computer, but I couldn’t remember the password. And Steve Jobs himself turned up dressed in his trademark blue jeans and black polo turtleneck to hack it. And days later I tripped over his death on the internet and they buried him in his trademark blue jeans and black polo turtleneck, and do you suppose he knew?