Ian, 1980

I am tired of this winch

Drawing me up the hill

On a rusted chain.

The axel turns 

With the demonic click-click-click

Of a second hand.

The chain sinks its teeth into my Adam's apple

And strangles the liquid screams in my abyssal throat,

So I scribble them down on scraps of paper.

The sky is hopeless.

One million eyes peer in at me

As I bleed my hen-scratch onto the stage.

The young forest growing on my brain

Is rotting.

The shifing roots create earthquakes

That shred through my muscles.

It is getting harder to see 

Through the tar under my eyelids.

Where is my daughter?

Where is my wife?

They can never know.

They can never know about my future

As it dangles from the kitchen ceiling.