Obviously we go for c.
You are the beast up on blocks in Claremont
that sits behind me in restaurants
calling the thin air a cunt,
that curls up Liverpool st like a grey whisp
mumbling ‘thriftshop’.
You blow stacks out of the public library
and there are snakes in your sleeping bag so you shot your father.
You are drinks. I know. You go to planets.
There are days when you just have to make boomerang phonecalls.
You ride around Russia on a pushbike, drinking apple brandy
and you get fat every summer
Like the Eider Duck
You’re making more noise than I am put together.
You know what Scrooge really said,
what it means when the gate creaks,
the truth about the weather report,
and your thoughts have become your enemies.
I catch you looking at me from different eyes
Every now and then we bump into each other.
Sometimes you’re in my friends,
making them say curious things.
You give them the gift.
They can’t return it.
1997, Tim Gadd
