Listening to P.J. Harvey, brooding on Hitchcock

These poems are hiding in my computer one minute then runnin all over the house the next, can’t nail them down and they can’t write themselfs,

trouble here, nice to be needed.

This is how it works: with each passing year you get weaker in body, while the mind expands, gathers momentum, sees it all fastly unfolding, like a book, uh-oh, does not like the ending, no it better not.

Just 2,000 more miles and smiles of same old potholes, lays open like a road, miles and miles of smiles to go, before eyes held open with toothpicks, close, ah, lights out, clockstop, sleep.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air.

See? You have my sympathies.

Story written in concrete, that’s an uh-oh.

Dr. Fuckhead, though not on-call during untimely strokes,

holds me the way an alienist ought to, no prurients, not physically, containment, it is metaphor, lookitup, Christ, don’t get me started on your problems with language.

He contains me, strongest holder I ever known and I've seen men come, and somewhat better I've seen men go.

Two thousand miles away, he walks along the coast, 2,000 miles away, it opens like a road.

Where’s Jeff?

Gong.

Fuckhead and I had to increase our sessions so we can spend first 15 minutes each time more or less fighting

the same non-person.

Be the patient, he says.

Just for today, try and be the patient

I let you help me, don’t say I don’t I let you help me more than most—

Today you dint, last time you dint, let me get the chart…

I hear he has a written in childhood concrete template that’s supposed to turn out ok.

Note to self:

Ask to see this.

No suicide feelins in therapy though, get locked up for that shit.

By the way says doctor F, you over-estimate my powers.

He’s a liar, comes with the job, psychopharmacologist, likes to rattle my combinations.

Me and computer ride out lethality on open wound that goes on forever; suicide feelins is good stuff though, something like that, some doctor, don’t ask me who, said so, Dr. Forgot, 2,000 miles ago. Let the biographer handle it,

Robin Plan: The Forgotten Years.

That bitch, miss tragedienne, keeps turning up,

You again, pretty little green-eyed momhound mess, what are you doin her. I thought you were dead.

I thought you were.

I am. Your work here is finished.

Ok, cool, see you next un-year, happy birthday.

2,000 miles of open uh-oh lays before me like some

men come and some men go

come and go come and get it

let me go uh-oh

go go gongo—

Hey, come back, there’s something I should tell me

Hitchcock says

what’s left underneath

remains

we’re what’s left when you take away everything

Robyn Hitchcock, lifelong gongfix, still alive, I wouldn’t skip over that too quick trite now.

Still alive, Robyn Hitchcock, good enough soft boy to be long gong dead.

Self-inflected open wound to much like my own afflicted head

remains,

alive, underneath.

Now everything is gong,

he sings

in pride of possession of what is remaining.

Robyn still alive, huh,

underneath.

Ok, thanks, got it, gotcha, thanks.

P.S. And deep inside my heart forever will be raining but if you don’t

know that by now, I'd say you’re more gong than I’ll ever be, as if this

was ever in doubt, wanna buy a couple of orange toothpicks? They’re un-selling like clockwork, go see for yourself, read how the story ends.

Home.