Backlog

The backlog of me is unopened bank statements

and yet untaxed debts that even I don’t want to deal with.

The letter opener sits in the pen pot, accusing and knifish.

I could cry in front gardens – chain smoke cigarettes,

make maps of bricks of how we got, so far –

but sweetheart, what the fuck would it matter,

if even I cant feel anything for the gut of the post on the mat.

You are in transit, your belly button is

a million molecules, umbilicles

holding you pylon,

guitar strung,

songless in Barclays.

Fuck me and it means corporate.

I mean no thing

when I say, cash it.