In your house the doors keep the water in,
Brass knuckles on the side drip with green skin.
The directionless manoeuvres that you make point all ways
Except north, north being reserved completely for your
Indiscretions, your powdered crepuscules, your whisky
Ringed shirt and tie, your resin gunked thumbs
And lungs. Streams of marbled sodium crystallise
And abrogate the drunk compartments that divide stairs.
Alone in your collapse, the living room turned upside down
Magnetic tape hung over your hair, unshaven for three days
Of booze and empty headed grin of aphex twin parked
On your face like a tow truck dragging a ford fiesta
Through the rain. I remembered you walking down
Engine gate, plastic bags from Woolworths full
Of dog food in each hand, headphones in your ears
The jack plug hanging loose as if plugged into the air,
As if plugged into that divine brilliance of sunlight you so
Often screamed about. Now you are ready to be part
Of that noise, a trunk of pastel sketches and some poems
About dogs. You are ether rising into your own eyes, and piss
Sprayed over the holding cell bars, the stench will stay
For days, will ignite wisps of willow in the marshes by
The pond where you wake up one day, thoroughly drenched
In death but still awake, and know for certain that life
Is more a poem than a film.