I do well to remember there’s a choice.
The world bungles, swarms. For too long I’ve seen nothing
but breeze rutting in boughs, felt little but this air,
thick with grit and aphids, enter at each orifice.
So much I dislike. Quickly it proves difficult
to resist, an addiction like any other. This week
I’ve loitered amid bunting, investigated ice
in summer drinks, taken it as proof for fools.
The party spills onto the pavement, repeatedly.
You needn’t flaunt skulls in your draughty,
incestuous keep to understand the options
are binary. I sleep in a small room
where orange curtains wad the light.
Elections are dumb sport. Yet still
this intrigue over how to phrase