No, I am not ill,
I have a disease.
Give me time.
I am just
working out
the differences.
Have you breathed in today the low smog of lies,
hung above, blinding, The Sun-darkened isles? …
I was stacking a truck –
of dance-floored audio –
me – twenty-something
at Shepperton Studios …/
Their prince was washed-up
blue-dead on a shore
Our prince was dressed in
quilt-coat against frore
…..
You will know you’re truly old
when all dear friends are dead
I am citing Clive James –
quoted –
often misread …/
Plans made today, to move my shed:
turn, pull, place, via grease-sleeper sled.
Tirfors engaged, off discussed points:
Fears for the shed’s, and my stiff joints
…..
Crosses fashioned
from wreckage re-found
in Lampedusa’s graveyard
of boats …/
My old voice – fragmenting – along with my teeth –
speech patterns are broken – immutably creased –
pouring decay out my thought-cavities …/
Seven forty five, a mumbled ‘thought’,
The BBC re-tuned, for the overwrought
…