“it will become a habit you get into
or i’ll just cut it off
it will become a habit”
the habit of the knuckle dragged in gorse
the salt of the crisp packet burned, a curse
upon my fingers, numbed by cold
bled daily, blistered on the pan
and branded with the bone structure
of man, of man, of man
the habit of the knuckle crushed on concrete
of the flick knife opened leisurely and drawn across the thigh
but gently, dragging in the skin
halted by fear of jelly flesh
and metal sticking in the bone
the sickness that made ritual of coughing
poisoned christmas dinner, and the presents
and new year
the muscles taut upon the ribs from coughing
pulled to string like blu-tack, snapped
lopsiding me for days, and days
the new bad habit
of the scratch of metal keys
the catch in purple folds of flesh
with one foot on the skirting board
the shirt held in the mouth
the boxers down around the knees
the metal digging in again, again, again
the rise of rosy bump, and ****** blush
camden canal, past midnight, new year’s day:
“i deserve to die
i deserve to die”