by Matthew Broomfield

Everything is ugly. Dull light consumes
The evening’s heat. Cityscape. Sundown.
Cockroaches are alive in the skirting-board.
Domestos swirls in the cistern. Suburban children
Sniff glue and smell of deodorant. Photons
Oscillate through the atmosphere. Skin cancer.
Maybelline. Lazarus. The truth is somewhere
Else. Men without jobs make love to women
With many children. They are all choking.
I am Legion I am Legion
The electric goes off again. Something takes hold
Of his hand and draws him on. Something
Is in his heart. Two rats gnawing electric cable.
His skull explodes. Alopecia. Sickle-cell anaemia.
True love. A child’s drawing of a house.
Smoke spirals. Fridge magnets. His smile
Is nailed to his face. Chemotherapy. Particles
In motion in water. Poor children play football
In the shadows of chimneys. Mirages. They tell him
To lie down and he lies down. They say rise
And he rises. Guard dogs patrol these premises.
I am Legion I am Legion
Frayed kettle-cord across hotplate. An accident.
Sirens. A shotgun beneath the counter. Incinerator.
He is ashes in the wind. Gastric reflux. He burns
From the inside out. Washing-lines. The sun
Is enormous. Pakistanis. June. July. He tests
The blunt edge of a carving-knife with his thumb.
A baby with its fingers in the socket. A toddler
Tumbling into an open fire. Flyover. The sky.
Boredom. His bed is soaked with sweat. Soap.
I am Legion I am Legion
Everyone is insane. Scrap metal. Dogs in hot cars.
Dead flies. Sometimes he is Christ. They tell him
To be quiet and he screams. Vacuum cleaner.
Fish and chips. Vomit on the kitchen floor.
Trauma. Vertebrae crack. Little freak.
Lighter fluid. A crowd gathers round a dead
Child or animal. Alzheimer’s. there is no replacement
For a mother’s love. Paracetamol. A dull, lasting
Pain. Heat. They devour him entirely.