Dear Hank

Let me imagine myself to be this

a woman you feel only kindness and respect for

We’d sit in a bar or a park or by

the pool in whatever scheme you’ve

chosen again

and we would talk about our work

You know there’s little that

could offend me

(I already know the depravity of man, I’ve held my grandfathers cock

in my small hand)

There’s little left of surprise but loads of

shit and disappointment

That’s why I need you

If you had never written

Bluebird or said to us don’t try.

I wouldn’t bother

you’d simply be another

pig in love with his death

I don’t need a father-figure

just you, man

a fellow poet

to sit

and talk to me about

the pain, where it comes from

where it goes

I won’t pay for one drink

just tell me

the words and

I will write them on my arms.


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