Come, gin, you sharp-tongued thing, and sit
with me for the daily briefing. Out he slides,

the ruffled slug, flanked by his advisers. He’s not
quite not grinning. The three podiums are dominoes

leaning hungrily in, park benches where you must not sit,
playgrounds wrapped in crime tape,

smartphones handed to children. He’s a moving billow,
a propagating dynamic disturbance, something to flatten.

Come, gin, don’t care was made to care, sit.
We’ll watch the show. We’ll wipe our hands clean.

We’ll sing our happy birthdays together –
you’ll be my acetone on ice. You’ll be my hygiene.

Our hands are eroded like gravestones
on a cliff by the sea. Our hands are black

as Whitby jet. We speak of the seaside
with memory and wonder – all that anarchy.

We think of the waves yet to come. All we want
is ice cream. All we want is oblivion.

Last night, gin, you made me dream –
I dreamed men came in masks with beaks.

I dreamed men came with worms and candles, dripping wax.
Men came to daub a letter on the door,

but I’d lost all my teeth. My mouth
was a gummy sock, so I kept it shut.

One afternoon a graph disappeared from the screen
because he didn’t quite like it. Johnson.

He comes with four-point plans.
He shakes our hands at hospitals.

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