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MAY   you slid into my life as though a witch’s smock — a sun poem   fat bee on a bright brick wall atrocious swan of love   we roll apart our grave-beds loose and hot   *   i have so many bouquets it’s like somebitch died —   using love as a bulwark against modernity’s axiomatic selfishness which i realise may after all be my great theme like fuck     TINY VIOLETFLAVOURED   here i am of sunday and earth rotoxid — fortunate for all i am not very giving of myself   the mad winds in trees behind the houses and indulgent baby   bad but better than Lars von Trier   like depression all your friends have had me   affirmation: even the slug (who is most profane) trails a platinum appliqué of artistic tragedy     MY MARRIAGE THROAT   and what really mattered were the cancers we metastasised along the way —   a shame of spotted blood on the guest-pillow the other afternoon i almost whistled after the hatchet-faced man on his red bicycle like pursue me!   desire very icicles cracking fantastically from a wingmirror —   sorrow, o no too many times left dry   my marriage throat — behind the suburb’s water-coloured fascia a window filled with orchids in the fluted bonnets of benighted spiritualists   what would it mean to shrink myself? pirate mini golf and evenings spent choked to supernatancy by well-beloved hand     First published in THE WHITE REVIEW No 23