Kickshaw

That’s what they tell me I am,
when I arrive after incautiously
saying: I don’t want to be
famous to myself any more.

But surely everyone wants to be
Marilyn Monroe at least?
queried the one-man geopolitical
wrecking crew as he

led me to the graphite garden
where I am to learn to appreciate
the clicking metallic rain of
the endless luminous chain

of my ribs, then shake my empty
fists at a non-existent god.