Two glass eyes married
To a bricked brain
‘You wanna see what’s inside my stomach?’
Gladly not, gladly not
But like a child, it shows it anyway
Atriums lined with po-faced clots
Bleeding the bar by the pint or pail
Brown ales, clear gins, golden whiskeys
Furs and leather and silk and sweat
Child: ‘There is money here and a bad smell’
Above us I can feel the eyes
Of the fetid green swamp birds
Tipped to swoop and carry you off
To their Bluebeard room 69s
Pigs in blankets, this jealousy and fear
Looking apparently uncomfortable
You take me outside to learn
To breathe again and we watch
The sea bash its head against the rocks
You said ‘If I could only direct the comets’
