|Harry Man, young British poet|
Not Fixed His Canon
I have scanned the headlines a hundred times,
and know the perfect way to poach an egg.
My theatrically posed electrical guts
are on display through the roof of my head.
Here my parts are highly-prized
by the brave or the certified.
My outpourings are the stuff of office legend
and the game is up, it was me all along –
I swallowed the fiscal year final accounts
and the list of fourth floor first aiders to avoid capture.
I've lengthened the lives of your lost pets
and your permits, your pencilled catalogue pages
your round robin jokes and cautionary notes
the unflattering discs of your buttocks.
But I can’t be the hero forever, I get old
and spill food all over myself,
I drink too much, or overexpose,
or become idle in the middle of instruction.
During operations I need a bypass
or risk losing your history forever.
And acting as though nothing has happened
isn’t acting anymore, it is how it is
on the tip.
poem by Harry Man; published online with permission of the author.