Blurb

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 poets,
Whose work ought not to be called poetry,
And I want more than butterflies.