Write, you bastards, urges the poet from Zaragoza
but random words collide, crash like FTSE shares
plunging off the page, zooming down a rabbit hole
where Sam Cam sits weeping, daubs me with an X.
Eat me, drink me, come to mad Nigel’s party, hunt
foreigners dozing in teapots, cart-load them home
flooding the Severn Tunnel and Spaghetti Junction.
Wales, Wales, you’ve scored the losing own goal.
Birmingham, my birth-home, I’ll fasten a bull ring
around your hard nose, show you the departing star.
London Bridge stands firm, isn’t falling for Boris
but I’m still the wrong side of the looking glass
balancing fear in each hand, pen & paper in mouth,
trying to write by spitting through clenched teeth.