Was it too many fairy tales,
Or the extremities of Wales,
Beautiful music making you deaf,
Or hearing your soft, sleeping breath?
Was it extra spicy roots,
Your indoors in pajama boots,
The painful maybe-not-kidney thing,
Or inability to sing?
Was it the spectral placement or
Stuff long deleted that I saw,
Dishonour still outstanding from
The eighties or a constant con?
Was it impossibility,
Refusal to accept and be,
The undiminished fantasy
Of intensive discovery?
Was it the sausage beans and chips,
The fucking cheese, the lack of dips,
Or the perennial getaways
And middle-distant non-blink gaze?
Is it dependent on the past?
Was there a first? When is the last?
Is it a game? A faulty trip?
Have I just sunk my battleship?