Sod and the sod who trod it—
a hook in the belly for Richey James.
The secant drawn to Blackpool Sands,
narrating of the Ur-act of violence.
A whelk unyielding ‘tween the teeth—
what’s chopped, what cheeks lie under black boardwalk.
The maniac, not too large to scruple
at one sanguine dram on his engineer-boots.
What kind of engineer wears those?
No nice one, no one to trust,
Richey.
-2003
