this is

       my first interview

           since my death
(predictable suspense)
              i swallowed

              a cotton bud
i had only just

recovered

from the teardrop curse
by then

it had become popular

        to pulp to reform
everyone’s dad

                    shredded

their rhetorical filler
that seemed to work

for them

                   the dads
every one of them

      had sampled

a few mls of

ostensibly beneficial

                        dribble
copper bracelets

      were big too

&

   old brass bowlfuls

of plant-based plants
– – –   
some perspective

in the kitchen –
rinsing

       greasy glass lids

             foam bubbles
little transparent

       purplish white globes

         slide      ping       pop
cartoon

georges perec

        moments
like

question your teaspoons

(questionner tes petites cuillèrs)
drumming

      steel cutlery

   to set the table
i asked

the pot plant

   what to do
begin straightaway

                    cook up

easy parasite stir fry
that’s what

the dads

called it
unwelcome comments
– – –   – – –   – – –   – – –   – – –   
out in the street

on the odd numbers side

         a house number

             is missing
heading

north to south

   facing east
into sunrises

pinkish or reddish

on a good morning
this is 147

the hermit’s at 149

        151 is missing

no house    no number

then

the rental terrace 153
day breaks

over the flitting zone
wind drops

its

sootsoaked aerosols
swallows chit chit

                to the clouds –

‘you’re across everything’
dreamliner

slices cirrus vapour
morning’s daze

            crashed

by an airwave nail gun
pump   pat

pump   pat

pump   pat
loud richochet

swooshes off the fence
– – –   – – –   – – –   – – –   – – –   
before

i died 
i had

to get away
crosshatched

nerves twitched
i deserved

a different body

   smooth & calm

   &

     maybe lanky
– – –  
i was

always polite

    &

        friendly
at the clinic

at the deli

at the library
at the fish shop
‘kalispera

          tikanis?’
my few greek expressions

               had come from

           a worldly lesbian

       who’d been to samos
she’d learned them

from her ouzo lover

         (‘s’agapo poli’)

      or

          was it retsina?
‘efcharistó

          télos pánton’
i should have

gone

     to samos
thanks

       anyway
– – –   – – –   – – –   – – –   – – –   
this interview

has digressed
i’m not sure

what you want

            to know
is it

about the poetry?
all

      accidental
from this cardboard coffin

             some final words –

Note: Pulp was an English art pop band in the mid 1990s. In late 2022, the poet Michael Farrell posted their news on facebook using the headline

‘Pulp to Reform’.

Michael posted “‘Pulp to Reform’ sounds like a pam brown poem title”.

So, I wrote a poem that really had nothing to do with the band but later, as poetry often does, its content took on a synchronistic cast

of mortality. Pulp were due to reform in 2023, but, sadly, in early March the bass player, Steve Mackey, died.