I’m thinking about how I understand you; if garages or Martian

food were made illegal. If I name George by

looking at Nigel. I look at Nigel: I look

at night. Like a storybook, yet much more visceral

   I get under a clod but have reception problems

   I had to ask a magpie what Puritanism was. They said

you can imagine what. Everywhere people were grasping their own

      metaphysical waists

as if a metaphysical circus act. My

Favourite Martian wasn’t like that, yet all

thought it normal. It’s why we needed

brownies. The newspapers were like people who wanted to be newspapers

by screwing themselves up and hiding in a brownie and

invading a Martian’s body and only then were they finally

satisfied. ‘Did they hate Martians?’ a magpie might ask later

   Well, it’s funny. The poem invasion. It was more like a

virus than a slum landlord. Or maybe more energetic. That we

could think in this antennaed way suggests the civic good of

returning to black and white TV lounges, to telepathic postures