Neo convulgent spagalia.

Getting divorced from contemplation 
Going down a river of dripping 
Greeting Burmah as a nation 
And not just another 
Petrol station 

Vaseline black like cloud in mountains 
Trees bend black and mirrors lend 
Sunset spags her dart of colour 
Like an oil slick 
In the village 
And she was not mad indulgence 
And she was not made of pain 
Neon bread in fat convulgence 
No machine 
She was contained 

Like sausage in a cassoulet 
Like flambed meat in poet soup 
Like orange pasta made of snails 
Chased by a Robin 
Into the fridge 

I suppose the notion of the writer 
Shunts like colds from town to town 
No-one ever thought no thoughts like you 
Oh no! You all did 
You just never wrote them down 

La La La La , bollocks haven 
I can’t pee and nor can Mavis, 
Because if am going to catch a baby from my brother or my dad, 
Ni, or no it’s all the same in a baseball game, 
with coloured hats and bowls of popcorn, 
Whatever you have, I don’t know 
and I am never going to run out of fags, 
YOU. 
Nonsense. 
Oh dear, 
It’s not all there in a square, 
or a hat or even on a Sunday. 
When there’s no where to go, 
nothing to interrupt. 
Oh no.