On the cusp of thirty-three & still
counting my chickens
as one by one my friends get fat with progeny //
they send me
postcards from NY/NZ while I cling like a limpet to un-
abbreviated Wales &
from time to time feel N/A // part Paddy / part Greek / 100% eejit
that’s the truth :
then / then / then May arrives in its gladrags calling yoo-hoo! & I think ach what
a carnival of
marigolds / spring’s the bitchiest bitch there is–– full to the brim with unlovely unholy un-
done & all
the girls are hungry to be someone’s anyone’s baby makes no difference whose & I/
I / I take
to the streets O free & all that wearing my darling fuck-me face / join
the sleek genital
parade & stuff my knickers with gaudy // some birthday
this / the gulls
shrieking on their invisible strings / & me /
cursing this unkillable
town / thinking fate’s just an-
other word for
fucked in the end