Desert Island Discs
Downing coffee like whisky at a funeral wake,
me, the dog and Desert Island Discs.
I’m marooned at this sixteen-acre table
eating toast that fills my mouth
with the whole of the Sahara,
remembering the legend of breakfast in bed.
Passion is a bright parrot you occasionally pull out,
me – I’m a slave to the cause,
a constellation thief,
throat ripped to fuck from swallowing stars,
dying to shine like Venus, like Pluto, like Mars,
like the big bright planet that I’m not.
I want a light show every morning,
a gala in the yard,
fat cherubs blessing each corner of our bed,
a rain of petals blushing on the skylight.
I want your commitments sculpted out of cumulus
and written in the sky.
I want a sonnet of your devotions
tattooed onto my spine in gold leaf.
Maybe I’m asking too much.
from Dr James Graham’s Celestial Bed (Comma Press, 2006)