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1 miles to one inch

when it all blows up in your face

this care-bomb this needle-stick in the heart

you jump you shout you claw your hairthe air the sidereal glance of a deity in space

it flies about grimy and pounces

sometimes

why is that my words are underlined in green

undermined my spleen

so the anger seems to ebb rather than flow

going nowhere slowhere anywhere

but into the heart of my assassins

these grad-school soul killers?

he rants, he raves

he barely needs to shave

at 31 hes an adolescent girl

wiry limbs asunder

floating in pools among the lily pads

the lobelia wilting in a disgusting slump

there is no vim

there is no vigour

theres just a slim chance that

my hate grows bigger

and when it does

youll be there

to blame

ah! But you I love you

and dont want that

no I dont want that

the fat man sings

he wears his rings

at the end of the day

collects his greenshe thunders and spasms

and bellows like caverns

bellow when you kick them in the testicles

canticles of pain thundering rains

and Spain may be the place to go

if France kicks me out

why oh why when the red ferns

grow slowly do I insist upon watching

their progress

entranced

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mesmerised

enchained by my curious desire

my self-loathing and torture going

full swing

going full swing

going full swingand it never stops this body rock

this chance

to prove to myself

that Im over it

(I am not)

I try press keys force it out

dally with the pen

and am all about myself

all over that shit

like the fly and the turdthe finger and the moon

the breeze and the skin-tingle

there is always the skin-tingling nausea

too much caffeine

too much sugar

too much she is fucking a new man

a grad-school poet

a piece of basalt stuck in my wound

the bandage rough-hewn

my carapace smouldering

the wind yeah there is wind

Gillingham Kent

Hempstead Valley

Rainham

Chatham

Ham sammich

Father Giles of

Hambone hambone

whats my name

where did I goand

why did I go there

why did I follow

why did I put off coming to Europe?

(for her of course,

but then we split

and I was left,

stranded)

but I am here now

at least thats what I tell myselfmy mind however

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now thats a diffrent

story a diffrent

stroke

a pencilled-in moustache

on the face of a bedsheet ghost

a spirit transformedand bound by ropes

I put it off for a future

that never came

so then, what next

how best to take the eyes back

to turn them hereward

as opposed to stateside?

pluck them out

adorn a stone figurine

with the living fleshthe seeing yolk

the burning moonside

yolk

the slimy artifice of eyes that are cryin

of a heart that is stuck with pins

by a voodoo master called

thats the way it goes

get over it

pop it like a teenage zit

life is not a pop song,

is it?

21 March 2002

Hempstead Valley

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