I have turned around now, twice
still the hand deals thrice it\'s devils lot.
too wise. too calm
the love life of a rat
born of a breeding hat\'s long island sound.
this body, old and derelict
dead below the knees.
it is only when I sneeze I dare to bleed.
with my fennel chin
my chicory and a hand-held photograph of a swollen eye
that points me south to where the pleasant people die;
it is here I am more hollow than my Eliot suggests.
a smell of beer. a smell as yet I have yet to comprehend.
there is no-one here but all that never ends.
old gods serene in a fury with a tablespoon of salt.
depression lights it\'s cigarette
and there they are
one million strong on a breakfast plate
begging me to circumsize the mothers as they sleep.