Cynic please live like the living do, you are
breathing like a chimney, statuesque
with cystic fibrosis, like that guy
who tortured my friend
and then himself drowned in a clotted cream basin
doomed soon dead, your torso is grey
a pond water ration.
Not all statues are silent, so sing
like that omniscient Wood Pigeon up there, report
every never existed memory, and sketch
her vertical that’s-enough-now nose.
Before you consider blinking, photograph
her leave me alone smile, use everything
to illustrate her paralyzed prose