Nice Day For A Sulk
Each morning Iím woken between 5 and 6
and thatís far too early to ascertain if
the French Revolution was a good or bad thing.
In China theyíre no longer taking the risk;
her rivers are overflowing with pigs
and you canít teach a man without water
to fish. About now youíll be hunting
for something not-meat, in your lampshade hat
you turn on from the heat, and learning
to haggle them down on the street.
If I wasnít so afraid of flying,
shanghaied into caring for two foster children,
Iíd surely discover other excuses
to keep myself grounded. Iím drinking
too much, Belle and Sebastian pour
from the back room and into the kitchen;
I drift from the saucepan, out of the window
and climb up as high as the Worcestershire Beacon,
then Google street view The Forbidden City
so that I see what you see.
Last night I dreamt your plane was landing
on our back-garden lawn that hasnít been mowed
and skidded on dog shit I havenít been clearing,
tumbled over and over and came to a stop
upside down in our pond thatís still without frogs.
I peered through the window and saw
youíd survived, but were trapped inside,
trapped for miles and miles. I think this is what
youíd mean by projection and my way
of saying the shipís close to sinking.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Raymond Miller
would be pleased to hear