GÖRSTÅ: The Unassembled

I wish I’d died in IKEA,
under umlauts and cold white strip lights,
chin cool on the melamine tiles,
feet limp in the shallow sink
of a mock kitchen,
beside a paper tag that reads:
“Easy to clean!”

Let them find me between the MALM and the KALLAX,
flat-packed with a wordless manual,
missing a screw,
a peg,
or a stupid bracket too small,
a ghost in soft focus
with dowel-rod bones,
u-bent on a POÄNG chair,
like ash mid-fall.

Watching queer polycules tangle
on trembling bed frames
and young families fake love in the maze,
sour vows sagging,
kids stitched to hips
on uncut umbilicals, 
screaming into the seams 
of a SÖDERHAMN sofa —
threadbare hope in a showroom coma.

God, how beautiful!
To rot quietly among fake ferns
and frozen meatballs —
shrink-wrapped in my Sunday best,
sinking,
eyeless,
gagging on second-hand Swedish
Fynda!
Sista chansen!
the pale veneer
clawing for the fucking exit.