Is it because I smell of onions and sump oil
Is it because of my unadorned Caligulan contempt
For certain aspects of ‘modern’ life?
Is it because of the black-doved wing-beat of my peculiar triumph
Is it because of the fall of my gait?
Is it because of the memory of all the things we could have had and lost
And written films about
Only to have them picked over like scabs
By a scavenging skip-bum in a flat quiff?
Or is it because of the scar on my palm?
Is it because I rude you muddly
Is it because we stomach the gruely forfeiture of a pink concourse
Is it because of the make your own chemical weaponry set
That bubbles in our lower depths
Giving off brownian sparks of spasmodic emotion
And hacking up magenta plumes of toxic love mist?
Is it because of the sixpence in the pudding
The candour in the toffee
Is it because a great big fat unbearable dread of nothing
Interdicts the regurgitating cistern of your swollen crow?
Is it because distance (the enema) breaks the heart with torpid languor
And all i have to do to make you miss me is be any bloody elsewhere?
Balls pond road –
A jeep.
Screams veil my haunted yearning
Planets gas and drool in awe
Razormade by cosmic barbers
Given like a dolls hair cut
Carved from stardust piss n pritt
Empty as a perfumed fishnet
Full of gone and rough as guts.
29/11/2008
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