There’s psycho kinesis/in balmy air,
the phase change of Revolution./53 Campville Rd.
Realpolitik teases/the art of the thinkable,/deadlock/
then three cheers/to the plausibility of change.
My house-warming friends are Polytechnic Reds,
with piled-on theatrics./The She-Artist,/yellow-black like a beautiful boy.
The pealing queen,/window-rattling with asthma
and the He-Harlot/with the hoodlum family.
The chemosphere tests summer/as we ripen ourselves
through incest,
run-amock loves/and distracting clothes.
‘You’re using this hutch as a fuckhouse!’
she said as she ushered in another man
while I/unzipped Malik to mahogany
a kaleidoscope of releasing hormones
through the grey matter of my head.