And I, Carey, have measured out my life in used needles,
and bloody fingerprints on my clothes,
and pictures of my own cock on my phone, shrivelled by drink
and a growing tumour of pain in the tendons of my calf
and such a cancerous lust,
and the shaking hand around the electric razor that won’t break my skin
and the sights of Broken britain,
and Broken britain broken upon the flaccid thoughts of dull men with bald spots
and better teeth than mine
and who stand tall
and proud like a Roman Senate
and desirous of Caligulan impersonation.

And I, man, have seen beautiful eyes flashing
and marked skin glowing beneath LEDs
and loved soap-muscle tattoos
and black t-shirts on the radiator
and blue underwear slipping to the floor.

And, in the ravages of yellow ghost-dawn,
the pen sniggers in my hands
and it mouths silent abuse
and says:

I have been in love before,
and I have had a broken heart
and I have known hate
and ink-emptiness
and desire.

And I have been so bloodied with myself,
and I have wondered how I could dare to breathe
in the stink of my insides.

And I have been a god, and laughed at the children,
who call themselves writers,
who call themselves poets;
who dare to call themselves alive,
without blackness bursting like hot-water springs from their veins.