Son Of A Gun

I drink my father's barrels dry
and blow the time-clocks
into indolent smithereens.

I finger the remote
like a trigger. I wave
goodbyes to Baby Bunting.

The body is like Jell-O.
It falls from the tongue-bone
like folds of flesh.

That cloud, that sun,
the fat face of that far star:
all of them moving targets.

[March 1998]

From Labour Pangs

Son Of A Gun