from backwards to front it all makes sense in a none sort of way we're all bits of a puzzle without a solution perhaps or because it's quite hard to say
there was a man who went backwards when he should have gone forwards who turned the wrong way whenever he could said it was just the way that he did things said that was all if he couldn't he would
there was a man who turned sideways another who hopped and one who's a dancer then there is he who gets it all right in his own sort of way without ever a no a yes or maybe
there's a man writing numbers from trains that go past and another counts birds as he jumps on the spot but he can't tell you why he's incredibly different writing poetry that can but mostly can not
SEX IN SIX POEMS
I had sex in six poems twice with friends of Bukowski once with Ginsberg and three times with Sylvia
Afterwards I had six imaginary cigarettes and felt knackered
THE INTIMACY OF STRANGERS
the only sound more dreadful than mum moaning in the night was the silence in the long dark hours the doctor the neighbours, the priest traipse through down cast eyes and cups of tea
endless cups of tea
in the morning in black suits and black ties breath like curling steam through sympathetic lips they came for her asked me to call by later bring some clothes I tried to explain the smell apologize they said it didn't matter
they gathered her up bundled her into a box
later she was stripped naked by strange hands cleaned and dressed for the fire
if she had known it was going to take the intimacy of strangers she would have died of embarrassment
