the crooked biography written in jail (commended poem: 2015 competition)
the line in the sonnet that moved you to tears
the line beyond which you can damage your ears
the mutable tones of the red-white-and-blue
the changeable stomach of Thunderbird 2
the SS Titanic’s impeccable stern
the ice that you slap on the frying-pan burn
the lyrics to fear of the dark in reverse
the childhood ambition to ride in a hearse
the hideous version of stuck-in-the-mud
the still-unforgettable volume of blood
the wax on the walnuts of Christmasses past
the limp radiation that follows the blast
the goodness you felt in your soul as a child
the devil who looked on that goodness and smiled
the squirrel that doubleyous over the tree
the scoundrel that doubles you over his knee
the seagull that orgasms over the sky
the things that you pass off as dust in your eye
the part of the bookshop where travelogues are
the book that you grip like the wheel of a car
the delicate boyfriend you won in a fight
the leathery neck of the gearstick at night
the heated discussions each summer in France
the horrible insults you script in advance
the bar in Wisconsin you saw in a dream
the fly that ignites in the ribbon of steam
the early pornography carved on a tusk
the strange disappearance of palpable dusk
the gospel of John which begins with the word
the joke which apparently nobody heard
the loathing you bear for the literary scene
the grudging respect that you hold for the Queen
the twinge in the shin of His Majesty’s horse
the crime for which so far you’ve shown no remorse
the elegant monster who cares for your wife
the illness that dogs you the rest of your life
the flair you imagine for dealing with tribes
the deftness you hope for when handling bribes
the dawning awareness of somebody’s face
the abject suspicion you feel for his race
the hesitant cough as you look for the words
the timely alliance you made with the Kurds
the televised Muslim whose fervour you crave
the terrible prophecy carved on your grave
the treacherous pavement in Manchester square
the villainous mountebanks gathering there
the place in the sticks where you’re planning to live
the piece of your mind you are planning to give
the verdict that’s coming on armistice day
the numerous judgements you’ve made on the way
the song that they’ll sing as they put you to death
the ballad of blasphemous Dougal MacBeth
the crimson lagoons that await you in hell
the apricot bath in the distant hotel
the lesser of numerous evils at best
the head of the governing body at rest
the knowing tomorrows are anyone’s guess
the question I’m hoping to answer is this
the chance being given you, would you dismiss
the mocking, affirmative yesterdays? Yes.
