& 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.

¡Fool!

¡Buffoon!

¡Ignoramus!

¡Fuck-cunter!

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,

& famish.

So we must roll up our bags,

slap the grit into our knuckle wrinkles,

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