empire of Marmite


lacking, as has so

often been impressed

on me


the salt of the earth

I languish here

at the end of Xmas


resembling one of

those final men

who will exist


after everything

the no-clue men

in no-men’s land


listening so hard

as if the self was merely

a filter for it


to Shostakovich’s

rare 8th Symphony

– the anti-Stalinist timpani –


after folding two slices

of Sainsbury’s wholemeal

into halves like


a butterfly print

to supplement the salt

I require as


an unravelling

wanderer in

confusing temporality


the Russian project

after its Modernist

phase gathering


the dense

entropy – retreating-

due to


the usual


territorial over-stretch


just like Ur, old

Babylon (a stellar place

to be on a Friday night)


or America itself

too thinly spread

those imperial forces