For Kevin Mills


Matter is subtle here if surprisingly projective.

At every turn of the stair some old wag

waits with a hailer cocked: genuinely grand

television-style personality. My house

is not my house,

down there in the fizz, in the atom-bed: freaks, pangs,

erotomania of extravagantly exclusive nightwear,

though enzymes have already eaten away half

time’s stuff,

at the base, as opposed to the hyperstructure

poised for decorum’s sake. One muse one vote,

no apple no cry, that’s the rule in the jury-box;

if a bowl pings you know it’s honest ,

but you still have to go through the process,

honour your promissory note. Is this pleasure or work?

Dread waits in the road, its big open mouth slobbering like a cave.

My book is not my book.


From A Colomber in the House of Poesy (Aquifer 2014)

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