His crabbed handwriting scrawls
'poetry is a savage war'
and other pills of pub beer wisdom:
'in the destructive element immerse!'
straight from the disinherited Lord Jim
with a suicidal, sherbet-tasting bite
like the powder spilt out on the numbing tongue
from the split capsule of an anti-depressant.
'I'm still out of touch' the swatted legs
of insects spell out on the off-white paper,
'and, I believe, over-medicated!'
but not too much to date the letter –
'I'll leave it there' the scribbles say
'be in touch soon Yours truly'
then his squashed spider appears:
'David' makes arachnophobics flinch
and all the flies trapped in the spinning years.