From "Ten Nudes" (1)

House DJs always keep their hair short
so their heads can be easily cut from press-shots,
then dropped onto florescent posters

and a thousand other reasons
to be clean-cut and rhythmical

to drip dry after the morning shower
when our signal-to-noise ratio is at its peak.

A teacher once told me that poetry aspires
to the simplicity of the nude.
To be naked, he said, was to speak without footnotes.

Though, in my opinion, a naked person
usually has more explaining to do than anyone.

I am sitting on your toilet with my empty notepad.
You are drying your fake tan with a hairdryer,
Talking to me through the bathroom mirror,
Asking if the back of you matches the front,

and I can’t even hazard a guess.

Questions like this make me feel like a child,
listening to the roar of static behind the curtains,
The endless transmission of London too powerful
to appear within my limited bandwidth.

Your body is too much. London is too much.
I can barely connect two parts of it.
The diagrams we use are useless upon the surface.

Its in moments like this that I realise
How little my A to Z has to do with the alphabet,
How uneven the spread of language has become
Its edges collapsing into farce, fizzing with data
like nudist beaches.

Which is why I write down
"I am in love with your neck."

Which is why I cut
the body into pieces.