Wearing it; a fat man’s coat, a feral cat in heat; a long Indian Summer
Prickly and ruling the hairs on my neck with its fascist wool and no November
Mourning and memory are a venomous drink in anyone’s possession
The under-pockets of both arms stick to my body sides over and under
Slipping and the wet whines for the mercy of air or absence of hurt
Slapping at the back of my hair is a wooden stick and a drunk mans hand
Pouring my insides out, like a morning beer; garbage can not dream or stand
Vile steel wire words inflict into child marrow and spirit; a little body in a vice
Mute substitutes for screams, raised veins, rage and kick cans; a stationary revolt
Amend me, this and that and anything that will stick to my skin and the dirge song.
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