Sort-of Seeing Sam (The Salsa Kid)

I’m fixing that pipe.

Gushing artery. My head,

it’s waltzing with flies.

 

Look, my tools, boots

Are Dali’d with ants. Your dogs,

shit, they’ve shat on my bed.

 

Slow nightbeat, with rain.

Vague forms: a gas ring won’t light,

you’re joined at the hip.

 

(Haikus should put Spring

Or Autumn first. Mine don’t,

they shoal in the dark…).

 

It starts with small waves.

This sea-mare; each wave a gulf,

fractalled by distance.

 

Call out the coastguard!

Lightly, fantastically

you’re crossing the bar.

 

Three cakes, a record.

For elevenses? You bet,

and more cakes at four!

 

Gutting the post,

You’ll encounter the usual glyphs:

bills, openings, mute threats

 

from me. The coastguard?

Stormsurge fizzing through pebbles,

your frock sequinned with spume.

 

A death out to sea

Leaves traces. Bladderwrack,

blown corpses on sand.

 

Things roll down the drain.

Small parts I cannot retrieve;

important parts, though.

 

“I’m sort-of seeing Sam”.

Five words, one intention: what,

sort-of not seeing me?

 

PDI

August 2010