Monday, 12 April 2010


I am happiest when I am fattest.
Ambition is a sickly aftertaste of gym and shower gel:

Falling from a lofty landmark,
I have photographs of myself, small and naked,
Stapled to my sometimes muscled form.
Cells skim-read, turning to their final page,
And this book has many pages missing,
So our understanding is modest.

The baseball-bat-thwack of Mother Earth
Into a skull,
A legacy like a cough or sneeze,
Is possible.

So is a life of one hundred thousand days
Of box-ticking and effort-love,
And back cover blurbs (or poems) that say nothing,
That must never be proud,
Whose writers ought never to call themselves
Whose work ought not to be called
And I want more than butterflies.

No comments:

Post a Comment