For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

Else flattened by the interminable downpour.
Or those determining words, lisped by down-turned
mouths encircled with earthy hair. Biologically determined, after
a number of beastly generations.
And though seldom heard, the hushed clouds of words
that steal over murder scenes certainly precipitate that disintegrative
rain to run, all romantic, down your face
to weigh your chiffon like
so much tight-loving, squeezing love.
And your nose,
eyelids
and brow drifting south
to take it ALL in: stiff toe dawdling up to proud head;
languorous (O let me)
and then again, your mouth *shushed* permanently
with a film of oiled skin transported from one of the scarfed
parts of the body.
And the chewy rind of semi-scabbed kneecaps prematurely
removed by,
you say, O!
–bonnets and hoods of the rusted carcass MS Riverdance
hull shield wielded by that fucking crane operator we can
barely make out from down here beside the skip.
And your carefully coiffed, pomaded scalp coasting to
the floor on a bump of wet red and cream. Coming to a halt
beside the foot of the fridge.