Why are you so unhappy Henry
My book of poetry has been criticised
Too oblique too obscure are just two
Of the criticisms in the press today
He is crude racist homophobic
They have accused me of all things
How dare they I hope they all die
Think what critics are Henry
They are failed artists
Failed writers
Failed poets
They have failed in their lives
I would lynch each of them Diane
I would lynch them like the niggers of the Deep South
I would record their agonies on my magnified phone
I would record their final breaths and their final tears
I would then incinerate their wretched corpses
And spread their ashes over the faeces fields
Henry do you remember where we first met
Yes on a railway station in Southern France
Whose platforms were embraced by tall palm trees
I had come to one of your readings but was too shy
To speak to you and tell you how much
Your Wonderful Poetry
Meant to me and how it had changed my life
I waited for you
I wanted your love
I wanted your eyes
I wanted your madness
I wanted to share your journeys
When you are unhappy
I am unhappy
I am angry for you
So very angry
Here in Babylon