Application for Destruction*

Dear Revd. W. A. Spooner, Mrs. Malaprop, The Revd. Thomas Bowdler, 

I write in response to the advertisement. Clownlike I greet you at the beginning of a bitter career. I applaud your vests. Here is a twist of lime. My garments are odd and off-line: black gabardine cloak and perfumed Chanel boots - the air around me is fragile like a rose.

I agree with the sentiment, those we want to erase must be erased. This time I will name no names. Merrily let us burn the drear collections of the last thirty years. Let us dance around the flames like pixies. Aloof! Mad CAPS! We the crazies are re-seizing poetry!

Turgid past - cemented daises. Sirs, I apply for your school though I want nothing from your school. We sing the new poetry of the nuclear, gin-soaked, arriving after hours like spilled wine on fresh white blouse. We see the main stream and we piss in it.

Yes we must be heard but we are happier if we are not. We must be un-involved from the old regime.

We ride waves of prettiness at night and in the day catch buses to the cemetery. Yes, our muse is amused, but contrary to your premise our heroes are centuries old. We look at the old figureheads through 3D goggles. They are grand. We don't like school, we don't indulge in thought. Mostly it is not we but just I, alone, aloof.

In blissful neon jangle I stutter round the lemon grass lanes, happily I wear the multi-coloured dream coat of Garcia Lorca, I take his shirt as he greets me to drive to the coastline and throw nightingales at the ocean.

Star like your advert sings to me. This is an application for destruction. I meet you but cannot join you. I apply just for the blissful rejection.

I look forward to winking at you.


The Grand Delinquent

*From the gin soaked school of the new fanged regime