all
bust up from the Nineteensixties
is
singing Frog went a-courtin’
outside
Poundland. 17 starlings fly
down
his throat and then eat him
from
the inside, bursting out with
their
tiny knives from the worn out skin
into
the very hygienic light. They leave
the remains behind, spread out
on
the pavement; here’s what you call
a
stinking antidote to History. His dog,
licking
the pallid lungs, stops for a moment,
turns
to me and says, Are those his wings?
I
say, Who cares? Where do you think
he’s
going to fly to now?
