I used to think truth vital,
Now I don’t think that at all.
Only in diminutive incarnations
is it relevant. I wish I’d seen
the tornado that levelled
Kensal Green last year.
When I compare the faces
of theme park junkies
after coasters and splashdown slides,
the soaking look so broken,
rigor mortis shivering,
straight-backed legs akimbo.
Scream for double-helix loops,
for in-line 4G brace your neck
don’t lose your shoes,
but one day the boat will return
and Shelley will be dead
and you won’t come crying to me.
I’m so dirty, the water’s turning black.
I think I’d better shower, pull the plug.
Beg your neighbour, his curtain closed,
call a nurse from the nether ward
to lead him down those sandstone stairs.
Not that he’s no saint, but I’m bored
by the hack in his lung. Earnest by-line
coughing keeps my steel plate spinning
and sister I’d crash for a milligram’s
silence, intravenous if you please.
Thrice nightly the boa constrictor
checks my pulse and robbed of sleep
I swallow the double-baked lotus.
Vatic sputum’s spat, the silver bowl
spills shrill to the frigid laminate
and the ringing’s a circlet on stone,
no bended knee to stoop despairing hand.