Sorry you hapless cretin,
Conjure yourself a new tent. You don't need my old teepee in order to move on. I'm fed up with your unctuous arguments of self-defence, your missing commas (did you think I wouldn't notice?) your cards with the heads all unseen in your pockets. Even your shadow wants nothing to do with you. Take the wild and worn heart of you and fuck off into a ploughed field; Go where the smoke will rise from the stubble and purify you. You have made an igloo out of the capricious coldness of your heart. Light a fire for God's sake. Forget the whale. Let him boom boom in the murky depths. Let his whale heart be cut out and worn to the sweet beating of the doldrums.
Even if I were to divulge the location of the tent, you'd not find it. Its coordinates would baffle a man like you; the rose-finch upon your shoulder, forever nibbling your lace collar, would distract yuou long before you found the chink that leads the way. And I'm not talking inscrutable random Easterners either. You say nothing is delicious: Light a fire on the parapet. Toast yourself a sweet feast to tell the time by: meringues at seven, praline brittle at 9.30 and marshmallow fingers at four.
Be dauntless Sorry, if you can. Melt the snow-queen in your jasmine heart, sweeten your sour breath with parma violets. Ah you have me.
The tent is in the piutched field in a landscape where rain links the Church, the mill, and the stream. Be good Sorry, for now you have it all
Your vey own Muff