why I am planning this trip like a funeral
is a matter for my biographer
he thinks, cutting through the hairs on his face,
it's a matter I haven't the time nor the inclination to consider
this early in the morning,
in this kind of cold,
and this kind of naked light

letters reading like goodbye notes
to say I will be going out into the field
to confront the face of the Devil
to confront the anti-god
to confront everything I fear
and to excuse myself from everything I've now become

letters to say thank you
for Saturday morning breakfast
on bean bags
in front of electric fires
for swimming lessons
and colour cartoons
for American cream soda
and lifts to the match
I will remember you

night thoughts of
distance
and a transmission bounced off the moon
to say
I can see the same moon too
to say
I will be coming home soon
just as soon as,
just as soon as...
just as soon as the job is done
and everything can be put behind me
and given distances
and dust

but it cannot play like this
and their faces will be harder still
the blood dried under their fingernails
but my wounds weeping anew
I must stop treating this as some kind of funeral
and treat it like the birth
of someone else
who,
given the right conditions,
could really make a go of getting through
to the other side.

The other side...
what a head fuck