Strangers and angels 
and angles and stranglers,
in an age of nothing new

what's left to create?

I want an unedited you,
not Snapchat
but time-lapse,

not trophy of a sex tape
but tattoo text certificate-
look how brave I was.

Get over it.
Get past it.
Stop hurling milk cartons onto cobbles so you can cry,

elastic drags you back,
let go and wound and carry onto wherever you see fit,
the moon perhaps;

and I want to ask the dads when they went to space because they know so much about it,
but it's all from books
and BBC Four late night

tell me mores.
'Cos somewhere in here is a
gypsy boxer, low rank poker player

who doesn't know how the world works
and meditates, all odds bundled into clusters.
I've developed the taste for granola

and silent films,
quake teeth and aftershock tongues, berries rest,
under eye makeup and train chases,

cornflakes on mute, smooth talker,
my crunch is worse than their bite.

This is fourth time lucky cos the third didn't cut it.