Poem
for John

Someday I worry that all my friends will
melt in oils on my lobes, congeal in my nose
and be flung into a tissue and discarded.

It seems everyone is in love -
I'm not sure if this is a good thing.
The only thing sadder than a memory is a photograph.

I drank the milk of human kindness straight
from the carton. It had gone sour and scolded me
for letting it get the air. I apologised and finished supping.

I'm knackered and could have done
with your ear to bullshit to earlier on.

But still, it was a productive day:
five new poems and one new interest
and many more etceteras.