I love your mundane,your minute minutes.What colour milk do you get shall we doa white wash today is there any broccoliwhat shall we have for dinner tonight did you hear what he said will you do the shop tomorrow I made your bed anything to add to the list pass the salt.I want your domestic,the language that holds our hands.

This is where I came from, not proudly.Evening blood rippling unevenlyAcross the icing of an artexed wall,A dining table for instance, busted,That airless intoxication of shame.Those were my days.Not Beirut or Belfast but home.The mind framing that jagged realityIn a spray of family snapshots,Laughing at itself in quiet times,Mutilating imagined enemies in dreams,A daily pill the cheapened pri...