I want the love
familiar chords promise
as I smoke by the windowsill
and think about quitting.

Hair doused in seawater
and drying out in the sun,

a conjured reality suffices
to salt my food, to revive my senses.

I want the love
of an angry mob,
revolution on every tongue

and violence never far from the centre.
The removal of myself

from society coincided with my brief insanity
and I should say that I am never coming back.

I want the love
that remains after that.
In the absence of Jesus,
in the absence of Fact.