Jonathan Finch
I am muttering mad, a fool
who swishes for trout in hillocking streams.
McAdam is not my name
but my father made me my mother’s mule
(and left me) to run away with Mace-
y Mullins who keeps her face in a public place
with plenty of others. I’m turned out of doors
and topple on cities, muttering mad over pubic pretties.
I’ve never noted a face before
it has gone to seed
and distorted more. I am not McAdam. McAdam’s dead.
I am not the apple. My father’s eye
was taken by any shit who bit
and dropped her knickers and showed her tit.
I sweat like geese.
The summer day Dad changed his spots,
he prattled to me: “McAdam, my son…”
“I’m not,” I cried. “McAdam, my knot,
“you’re my progress-fool; you’re released by rule.”
“But, Daddy,” I cried, “I’d love to live
“with you and mummy inside the sieve
“your head runs through…”
He hit me hard and Macey laughed.
I am muttering mad, a fool.
(from “The Light Of Day (I)” to be published soon)
