on bad days I pray
on the sharp shingle
of Cromer Beach
letting the North Sea
drain blood from
the cuts like
shipwreck notes
in old bottles
and tiptoe away
between the oil slick
and dead seabirds
I know at night
I will be there again
between the same
sweating walls
reading the notes about
John Brown's prick
and who's sucking it off
and in the morning
I will try the same
formula of art and prayer
it will never work
and one day I will
recognise it for what it is:
some kind of insight
on some kind of walk
to a place
something like Damascus.
