Entry

A small room painted institutional green:
a radiator murmurs, no windows.
I long for a cigarette. Long for a cigarette.
The little man keeps asking questions abut Spain.
Occasionally, his neat hands come into the light,
playing with a reservoir pen, sometimes making notes.
Now he's talking about Spain. I know my mouth
is making a thin line. So hard not to. About stretcher bearers.
I hear the Sierra tapping my pillowcase, dust
silting my eiderdown. At the foot of the ridge,
by the blasted shrubs, lie bodies, a burning cart
and a braying donkey. Now stopping, then braying.
I pledge, religiously. Spain was a youthful indiscretion.
Some boys get drunk. My friends ? Oh, the usual crowd. Punting
on a sunny afternoon, horseplay on the Cam. Tennis
then tea on Sundays. Their names ?
My cigarette dangles. I watch the divers
brilliant bow connect the shimmering water.

S ... h ... a ... n ... k ... l ... y

I'm a simple poet, whose small orbit
is merely an A4 block of paper

P ... a ... i ... s ... l ... e ... y

You fall in with the wrong crowd,
they give you more credit than you deserve...

S...o...u...n... e ... s ... s

Those lyrics ?
They were just drafts. They're soon corrected.

H ... o ... u ... l ... l ... i ... e ... r ...

That sailor in Berlin ?
No. I never knew any sailors. Only nice people.

D ... a ... l ... g ... l ... i ... s ... h