I have only ever written one poem. It is this one, and it is about you.


Fields of green cream and clean sludge
sedge either side of the suffering motorway,
an ultragrey stream of souls and frozen dung.
Lank branches ooze mudclouds. A horse crosses the bridge
on which we are standing (we do not touch),
inhales the godless incense of exhaust fumes, and whines.
What malformed ghosts will haunt these tortured
textures of land and oil, skiff England’s peeling skin,
or give ear to the shrill squeal of a hungry wombkin?
What could possibly happen once this has happened?
In the staffroom of the Catholic primary school
there is a magnolia notice board, on which EXIST 2
posters about child abuse, and 2 pictures of the
virgin. The man in her arms is both her son and her father.

by Col. Baldwüllz

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