in his passport, under “occupation,”

no one forced the man to print the word

“custodian,” and in The Faber Book

of Handy Hints his five-line entry reads:

“You young pretenders, keepers of the nought,

the nish, defenders of the sweet fuck-all,

think bigger than your pockets, profiles, health;

better by half to take a sideways view,

take a tip from me and deface yourselves.”

A WEEK AND A FORTNIGHT

Tricked into life with a needle and knife

but marked with the cross in the eye of a rifle,

laid from the first in the grave of a cradle.

Fed with the flesh not the fur of a peach

but bruised in the garden, tripped in the street,

bunged with a bottle of petrol and bleach.

Nursed at the breast on the cream of the nipple

but branded for keeps with the print of a fist,

buffed with a handkerchief, flannelled with spittle.

Baubled and bangled from ankle to wrist

but milked for a season, stung by a cousin,

dunked for a bet on the hob of an oven.

Picked for a prize for the fair of his face

but kicked to the foot from the head of the stairs,

buckled and belted and leathered and laced.

Spared from a stunt in the mouth of a lion

but dabbed on the foot with a soldering iron,

stabbed in the palm with a smouldering stub.

Left for an hour with booze and a razor

but carted by ambulance clear of the woods,

saved at the last by drugs and a laser.

Days for the dirty, life for the lost,

the acts of mercy and the stations of the cross,

the seven acts of mercy and the fourteen stations of the cross.

DREAM HOLIDAY

On the first night, a yawn,

the noiseless opening and closing of a downstairs door.

The dog lifted an ear,

and the next day the dog was kennelled in the car.

On the next night, a sneeze or cough

was shredded paper or a flash-gun going off.

The dog tapped its tail,

and the next night the dog was taken out and docked.

On the third night, footsteps in the roof-space

were bars of gold loaded into a suitcase.

The dog yelped,

and there and then the dog was muzzled with a belt.

On the fourth night, the Milky Way

was the gang of sparks from a nylon stocking lifted

from a face; water in the cistern

whispered, the dog whimpered;

toenails clipped were cables snipped, cracked knuckles

were connections uncoupled; splintered wood

and fractured glass, the dog shat,

and for that the dog was taken out and shot.

On the last night we were cleaned out,

the sound of tearing metal—hinges, locks—

drowned by the thought

of a dog asleep like a stone in its box.

CHAPTER AND VERSE

They were ushered along to the water’s edge

to wait. Then one further back on the bank

said drink, so they drank, some of them

cupping their hands, taking the water like gods,