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