peter jerrim

you rammed your fingers down my throat
and dragged out a map of England
which, spread before us glistening,
revealed elfin fires, a ruined abbey
and Heathrow

the parasite of my future thus extirpated
you turned your attention below
one hand worked my bandolier
the other poured
heavy guitars

pissed psalmist, daubing the skies
with red before sunrise
you’re stuck in a circle of days
you should be on fire
burning DNA, calm and sequestered

then
at the next election
when your white smoke rises
the weight of the world
will slip from your shoulders again