she would say
'eat my pussy'
and i would dive down
with the majesty and grace of an unfathomable titanic eagle
and obey

On the streets of London,
those soft, small, private parts of London,
I can taste heady summer in the beads of rain glass dripping from the tips of pavement grass
and I can taste pussy, too,
when i wake in tears

she would say
'I used to be so pretty'
and I would say
'look how pink, the moon'
and in the shadow of the volcano
we would walk laps around the Island
and god would say
'I Am'

sometimes I cannot tell if I am close to suicide
or ascension
I feel divine in the power of my inestimable love, or pain, or imagined colours, whatever term we use these days for god
I hang from the balcony and flirt with the Irish neighbour
who invites me over for gin and sex and sorrow
I hang from the balcony, like god

my murders are frequent but small,
they do not catch the ire of the law,
but they add up, no doubt about it, there will be a reckoning with whoever the fuck is keeping score.
My murders are fine. Mostly closing windows, breaking hearts, wasting time. My murders are the usual sort you tend to find in life. 

i had lunch with the publisher
in a gentlemen's club
surrounded by lords and spooks and what have you
what have you
my stomach was tearing and raging and rising up
the soup tasted of the soil in Kenema
and I saw the stars over Bintumani
and I saw the blood, and I felt the cut,
and I dived down, down
down.