RELEASE.

   I'm going to slap my anger onto a wet slab,
   put it through a mangle,
   hang out its long line of eccentric washing.
   I'm going to fly its flags
   from my windows, smack it into surprised faces,
   push it up noses,
   smash green bottles of it to smithereens
   on pavements, daub its shout
   on walls, hurl it across a football field,
   kick it into goal,
   empty it into a dustcart's masticating jaws.

   I'm going to parade my anger
   through town centres, exhibit it in galleries,
   make such a production
   of it on stages that audiences will be pinned
   to shocked silence. I'm going
   to drive it up the motorway in a topless car,
   scatter its pungent seeds
   on ploughed fields, wait for the dark fruits
   to ripen. Then I'll celebrate
   by scribbling messy berry juice across
   the clean page of the sky.