introduction to a poem that doesn’t exist

       This is a poem called ‘a nice friendly chat,’
       ‘the familiar bathos at the unfamiliar time, at bath time.’ Or:
       ‘as I look out upon the devastation we have caused, I can’t help thinking,
       I should write about this.’ or, have you noticed when ... poets begin to read their own work. 
       Something happens. Cadences occur, that would not, in everyday
       speech. And the words tend not to fly out or up
       but fall down, dying, at the end of the line.
       Is this why I prefer the introduction to poems,
       that don’t exist?

       I don’t think the Beats did this, but I have heard singers who do.
       Who don’t let the song speak for itself, without
       a little chat. This is a song about
       happiness. Listen,

       I was happy once
       before I had to get up in front of you and sing, and this
       is the song I wrote about it—And I was in love,
       now you have forgotten about it—It’s about
       sadness. So the song

       becomes a report, that is sung
       without looking at the words and if looking at the words
       without reading them. Singing them
       ‘a too sincere apology for my insincere behaviour,’ or
       ‘if time heals all wounds then I think I’m running out,’

       This morning magpies were singing omicron
       half a moon lay in the sky like a piece of bone       
       discarded and spilling its contents on the sky
       it lay there rolling I know this tells you nothing
       about how to live since life among people
       has become unbearable

       and we have to wonder today what the function of all this talk is if not trying to tie up like a thousand shoelaces connections some force has undone

       and every effort made, even after a short walk in your shoes I feel I must correct you, you are falling falling further apart,

       and I feel I must, I must tie up your shoelaces for you

       I could guess it’s a moral or a spiritual force, for the—and have you noticed it’s always in writing?—wanting to tie your shoelaces

       I want you to know, it was me who tied them for you.

       This culture of communication we live in, that because it is written we ought not call conversation simply,

       becomes an excuse for constant fucking moralising

       the fatuous comment of those trying to alleviate the situation, whose every attempt at levity is

       equally conservative moral. It’s poetry-heavy.

       Heavy with portent, fat with good breeding, stock full of references, and good for you...

       or poetry-lite, it’s called stand-up:

       ‘I yawned so hard I think I dislocated my jaw, ouch’

       It goes,

       I want you to know, it was me who tied your shoelaces

       this poem is about How to fight the endless fucking moralising

       that has become the Other in the world,

       who forecloses the world from me

       with his judgement, with her jokes, just jokes, and doesn’t seem to be able to enjoy herself and doesn’t seem to mind

       A world that is dying, expensive, crushing and disappointing, unjust, controlling, racist, cancelled, sexist, corrupt, sick, I’m sick of it

       The problem is no longer that the self is the synthesis of secondary images, the self is the synthesis of secondhand opinion

       It is no longer a question of what’s true or false and of their contention,

       it is the contention itself as every alternative is raised up to be or lowers itself to be

       . I tie your shoelaces together and watch you fall over .

       the laughing end

       it is a world

       without possibility

       there is no option but to stand outside