This house is derelict
The land a vast demilitarised zone
I bob my head up from the underground
I slam my fist against the wall bruising it
But do not draw the blood
Yet tomorrow my fist will know that it was used
Against the dead dull brick

My intellect is not enormous
And schooled though I was I am hardly thick
Yet my brains lack the scope to articulate
Such marathons of speech
Even to the role and podium of the dictator
Cursing those who will not obey
Those who fantasise about peace
And vote green


Amidst the park fences I walk early in the morning
I quench my throat with a beaker
I spit out the remains of my temper
I cursed the Bobby
He threatened me with a lock up
I had no choice but to climb down my box
On which I ranted my nasty voice
Now home I internalise the tears
They were seeping into the floorboards
Once the dirty rug had been wetted

I flaunt my tears too often
I rail in the street at those I perceive as trashy humans
I abhor the human race
I challenge those who could kill me
I dream of throwing my body into the river
And choking on pollution
As I sink into a boggy void
My heart crying out for justice
My eyes closing to life
Then up I go from the reverie
I unscrew the brandy
I calm my innermost storm
I drink

A book is being read by eyes which flutter in distress
Crow it is
A very lean volume
Evincing a great existence
Whereby bird can reel
And bird can shovel its own excrement
Then fling it at the complex I would call
A mania borne of dilusioned persecution
A horrible day to day mandanity
Unwashing the grimy pots
Unwashing the caked up body

I thought of myself as a stench
Then needing a quench I soaked my throat again with the bottles brandy
I observed the image of crow
Looked at the balls dangling ...