& all the pulsing itchiness—
No, I speak not o’ those moldy hinges
on which your spoilt rattling paint cans grip.
I speak o’ mo’:
a rainbow jungle
whose palms o’erbrimmed with crisp crisps—
that’s how I spelt it; it’s Britican without the sharp-edged can openers.
You think salt water can’t be fresh.
You think the sea salt ruins warm brownies.
If you’d take 1 tiny break from all your fuck-cunting,
you could peel open the apple
or crunch into the grape.
But if I keep eating potato after potato,
I’ll ne’er stop,
& I’ll ne’er get round to feeding,
So we must roll up our bags,
slap the grit into our knuckle wrinkles,