In the biting morning I live in exhaust pipes;
their thrum is home my throat is dry I ate

a church some time ago.

Am I your night sun
-everybody treasures a mountain-
and the hunchback timber yard worker gazing at a Surrey seagull (I really saw that)
is a hundred times more eloquent

than a well-constructed political statement.

In a future
galvanic reality I’m translated, explained, ordinary
and they know why and how and exactly when and due to what
specific chemical imbalance
I write like this;

until then
I’m every dimension of tightroping
on a jackstay.

Extreme situations are my niche;
on the street I’m anyone
when I write I am the litigant in person

and now that you found me
I want to be found again and again.

I know where to go from here

and shouldn’t have stayed up for the election results;
less surrealism, more rugby fans urinating into beer cans on the train.

There you go: a whole poem
and not a single mention of love.


Kandinsky – Unequal