You are the beast up on blocks in Claremont that sits behind me in restaurants calling the thin air a cunt, that curls up Liverpool st like a grey whisp mumbling �thriftshop�. You blow stacks out of the public library and there are snakes in your sleeping bag so you shot your father. You are drinks. I know. You go to planets. There are days when you just have to make boomerang phonecalls. You ride around Russia on a pushbike, drinking apple brandy and you get fat every summer Like the Eider Duck You�re making more noise than I am put together. You know what Scrooge really said, what it means when the gate creaks, the truth about the weather report, and your thoughts have become your enemies. I catch you looking at me from different eyes Every now and then we bump into each other. Sometimes you�re in my friends, making them say curious things. You give them the gift. They can�t return it.
1997, Tim Gadd