"Black box"
A conversation (with the springs.
And laugh into your armpits).
You (in my) yawn (describe tomorrow’s stroke.)
But (lately, then, I gently delve
And sense
A) skulk(ing intimation of essence
Tied) behind (the nose-side of my eyes).
It is no glimpsed epiphany.
A silent cohabitant;
Like the spiders that we airbrush.
A hedgehog that is self.
My black-box recorder.
"Hyde"
The park in intersections.
A sweating pen of pound-stretch fire, and
The whole identikit circle, there,
To wolf sheep.
I try not to envy
Their constitutions,
Brief protrudings.
Jaws to fuck and panel up, and fetching squaws.
Hands, glands on my primark, my maudlin thicket,
Post-anecdotal,
I may as well return to that old Slazenger I once turned,
Into what I thought was art
(That clenching time)
For all the chips I now hold.
Children of Boris.
Indifferent to the painted lady, cabbed and pinned, and timely cos we know
Your true address,
Your deeds and furnishings...
Their flaxon ethnie,
Daddy’s toys, untimely Christmas,
Become my glass-house
Conversation tax-break.
