try the slow stuff first,
while you still have wind;
distance yourself
from engineers and jellyfish thieves.
you feel hungry? ask godard,
he’ll rustle up a piano, but expect blood.
and don’t play with knives in front of betty,
she has an eye for them.
who’s to say why a boy in a mask
can’t lick a gooseberry into oblivion,
dive backwards into the furthest hole,
or practise all the scales
of fish on the chopping board
while the wildcat bride
finds broken glass.
at midnight the heat
is an egg fried on a sun-lit head
and it takes two stones and a river
to swim like a genius.

he checks the weather,
while a chinese lantern
goes lightly past the flame,
fox into a new century.
and then there’s god.
give me fourteen minutes
and I’ll tweak him out of you,
like medusa’s hairbrush snarl,
the monstrous backhander
wood gives in the dark.
I mean. if your mother
saw laika, she’d understand.
haven’t we all indented
every groove with fingerprints
and bastardised the brushstrokes.
as for this downpour of starfish
in your wheelbarrow, plant them
in red waterbeds before directors cut
to a grenade on the porch.