If I had a carrier pigeon
I would launch nine rockets off its back
one for the maid who is shaving her neck
one for the desk clerk at Old Carson prison
one for the meagre who meagre away
one for the shetland ponies
one for seismic activity which goes undetected
one for my seeping pores
one for Dennis the Menace
one for Mesopotamia and
one for St Anselm's ontological proof

My rockets would detonate precisely,
at £789 mph,
at 3 O' Clock on the fourth of November, nineteen seventy-two
they would strike with extreme prejudice
and afterwards
the skies would be thick with black smoke.
There would be no afterwords.