Howard Firkin
Dear God, let me be missing, crumbled dust,
when others try to recreate this wall.
Let me have been the one which made it fall;
the fissured one that let the damp get just
a sweaty toehold in and kick it down.
You made me mortal, cunt. Well, fine. I’ll die.
And you and nothing else will swirl about
not knowing time, and wearing nothing out,
and I won’t be and won’t have been, won’t lie
for you, outline a never had been town.

And you, your brain can trace the molecules
that once were me, and know I was a brick,
and I’ll deny it. Liar. Make more fools
and tell them. I’ll deny it, God. You prick.