I wish I had a name
something exotic like Sterling Holy White Mountain,
the name of the author whose story I’m reading now.
Not my name.
My name is bland as white bread, white as the face cream
my mother used to apply,
and shorn of all mantric significance,
It’s cute and cuddly like ‘Iggy’.
I want something mildly mischievous like ‘Flea’ or ‘Slash’.
‘Slash’ is good but I’d settle for something less edgy
as long as it was colourful. ‘Vance Blossom’, for instance,
named after a deep-pink velvet used on a sofa for the Cobble Hill line.
It is apt as I like to lounge around.
Chandler, Chandler Manning, I like — I made that one up,
the sort of guy
who doesn’t run away from fights or who is scared of lifts,
a bit like me in my more mythic moments.