untitled

Reassuringly I’ve thought
to trace my nauseous anxiety
back to the fact I was born
with what the doctors & dad
said was a ‘wet lung’,

concomitant possibly
to my disappointing inability
to scull, to smoke anything more
than a quarter of a cone
& to eat in tiny portions
that say anal austerity
over twentysomething gluttony.

& then when the television
salesperson bemoans the
third of the world that will
never learn to breath properly
your revelatory detective goes
a-ha & jots another origin.

You know when I get time away
from the ironic small-scale
anti-self-help-sales-culture crusade,
there’s nothing I like more
than to try & meekly metaphorise
my private nausea as relating
to an overriding aversion
against complete digestion;

I prefer surfaces & textures
& skipping along the aisles of love.
I am not conscious of heavy
Adamsonian aesthetic influences
except Stanley Kubrick, whose
straight lines & exact canvasses
make me freak & sparkle

& when marijuana’s exaggerated
complacencies become too much
you can find me wandering
around wailing GET OUT
in front of my chuckling &
wonderful friends. Today
two lives for the price of one.