i’m in this company
i’m in that company
a thought
a fort
an electrical short
tiresias in the back room wanking
some lethean in the anteroom blanking
brutus behind his best friend shanking
i was cutting up the word
back before i knew it could fire us
back before the muses could wire us
before the shit meant to inspire us
the word was a virus
and the eighties were dead viral
not christian moral and choral
a thatcher come to fire all
the roofers and deny the leak
who wouldn’t let the enemy speak
so they could recreate them
in their own image
from their own mirage
a mask is a task for a broken visage
i’m, where, am i, wear, ware, hymn him?