Oh you’re ****ing obstinate sometimes, and crafty
As a politico shunting questions.
You will blind through your grey-mother eyes.
Stupa-calm the more we fuss,
Black-holing words, facts, anxiety
Till all we have left is a kind of stupid anger.
Like Thelonius Monk,
Fistfuls of notes crammed in a melody
So there’s no tune left, just shreds,
We shovel in our care and sick-making fears
Till you fall apart.
And I have to go cook up a chicken stir-fry
To bring you back.
20feb09
