In the slovenly laboratory we call
Society sometimes a poet will crawl –
Great big unsupervised baby – up the wall
And from a bottle on the topmost shelf
Marked Danger, Do Not Touch, or Self,
Swallow, and in the slow paralysis
And death that follow scrawl
In blood, vomit or piss:
‘God damn you all,
God bless you too – but don’t drink this.’
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.