4 August 2005
in which he changes his mind
nothing’s naff enough to be exempt
from my music no naive note no fart or
raspberry no nails on chalkboard now and ever screeching
in memories when once we went to school
a hundred years ago or more or so
and going further back if Shakespeare’s dawdling student doodled
on his slate before the master clipped his ear then still he
scratches somewhere ’neath the dark his blanket snailed
with eye gunk slobber spunk and the slow
piss of dreams that never go away
I’ve never heard the snuffle of the slave’s
skin when the whip snips it AND I don’t want to SOME things
ought to be verboten I haven’t heard the cries of the tortured
dead I want my catalogue in concentrated form easy to digest particularly
I don’t want assault in cinemas by sound waves
designed for other ears not mine I want control and quiet
enough to rinse me deep in sleep until
I rise in shine and all the birds
will sing