My head is a wasteland,
waxy and round as a circus O,
the dogs are still in the sawdust, wanting water.
My tent is a mud mouth that snogs my knees
makes the flask crack and leak.
My mind is muttering about
murdering cherobine children,
when I wake my arm is out
acting ambitious.
Suddenly I want red bricks, rosemary
moleskins and Guardian ballpoints free from the press tent.
I remember crosswords cut out with kitchen scissors,
beetroot red wee
I wonder if the Queens nose can ever really crease.
