Such hair, such springy marmalade hair,
such arctic skin, such arctic eyes,
breasts to slaughter Vikings for,
such breasts, such fertile vulpine thighs
I’ve craved for months, all now crouch down
by frying pan and library card.
Two snowy trails. A Guernsey banknote.
Zonk! The material world is barred.
Zonk! We’re skating, disembodied,
along the pipes of the akashic field,
where only consciousness is real.
No more do men with ties and collars
wring us dry of money and pride,
no more do cameras and computers
rob us of our right to hide,
no more does anthrax, napalm, fission,
hurl humanity to its knees,
no more do I fancy this gorgeous woman
lying naked in front of me.
Sex has now an equal meaning
to fridge-magnets or paper-clips
or money, hair-nets, poetry,
nationalism or apple-pips.
And so, instead, we fall asleep,
and later on, in another place,
a white-nosed hippy in a poncho
punches me across the face,
then hides beneath a bar-room table
when my friends descend from above
demanding he apologise for his
jealousy of dissociative love.