…and is it even finished? I suspect it isn’t, but I’m going to kick it out of the nest anyway while I try to make room for some new ones. You may be interested to know that this started out as a very ‘poetic’ poem, all about early morning light on the silver arabesques of snail trails, until I rendered myself so fucking bored with my own work that this little gobbet of ugly spat out. Just like ‘How Many More?’ started as a hymn to jam-making and ended up a bitter half-spell against a boy long-gone incanted by a crone-in-the-making. I rock at the kitchen table, trying to focus on what is true, and currently it is all dark, dark, dark.
fucking snails / shitting babies
in the weeds again / mummy
it’s a little green one, I seed it /
how many times / do I have
to tell you / I’ve seen / or I
saw? / are you deaf or just /
stupid? / the pathetic dramas
when I snuff them with a pinch /
it’s best / to kill them before
they get too big / untameable /
her hair curls like parsley /
round and round the table
with the hairbrush / screaming /
I made porridge / like my mum
the right way / salt and water /
why won’t she sit still
and take it?
Kirsten Luckins 
What does it mean that I have a remarkably vivid mental image of you performing this as Suzi Quattro?