I met him once, the bootboy
and though I paid my dues
we did not speak, we did not speak
I hid myself
Too quare, bonhomie
rigid with dystonia
raw like brine
his heroic ligatures, dissonant
epiphanies of caustic burns
a mirror, darkly
and though I paid my dues
David Vetter, in the isolator
but contaminated
I have only ever traveled
the crater of clemency
that collapses
in the frontal and prefrontal cortices
We did not speak, we did not speak
always quieted by the rip
of silver alpha romeos
wildering Silchester Road
whippets bristling with muscle
us, warped by inborn cuntish gypsies
out of the simplex crusted
sacrum of childhood
I hid myself
stuttered to the marble
erased like tested cloth
like the millions cuckolded,
oh the many dead unfit,
each clave rising a skeining drum
meniscal gasconade
the chorus, sotto voce
‘nothing, nothing, nothing’
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