63

when there’s nothing left but nouns to push against even
gangsters feel the throat’s knifetwist as old emotions
bump out the darkened theatre. now as i read
my diary i see a pattern take form;
shit splattered on pages, concentric rings of excrement:
can this be all that’s left of the grammar books
they fed me, the house of hours where i learnt to
hear? foot to foot jumps keep my nerves nicely tense;
my sense, though, may never catch up. dreams fall to
hunger in my night; even maccas close their doors