This is on my aging remembering mind, just stuff, shit, fog, weed, mist, laptop, words in head, energy in fingers, Facebook, unedited in the 1970s, memories, recall the what now would seem weird but it isn't, type it as you howl it, post online before it disappears, before you delete thru fears of seeming pretentious and strange, add words, change words, make it you, to pun on Pound, Ezra, the mad poet, in his cage, you in your cage, I thought, you in your cage I thought. You're not Ezra Pound. I never thought I was Ezra Pound ... When I was young I had a tail. They called it a tail so I called it a tail. It was my tail. It was my dick, my thing, my wisdom of the snake. But at four years old it was my tail. I weed from it. And I think they called taking a pee a tinkle, but anyway. I was small enough to bath in my Nan Feldspar's kitchen sink. My cousins, X and Whatever, were also in the sink, my aunt Zelda washing us with a gritty bar of soap and a scrubbing brush I recoiled from, the bristles, metal maybe, maybe not. I said ouch. The reason I recall this is cos my aunt Z pointed at my thing and said: That's your tail. Maybe she didn't point at it but the word tail connects to the memory where my aunt Z might've also pointed at my cousin X's thing and she said: That's your tuppence. And we laughed. Zelda dried us, dressed us. And we had a glass of orange squash that tasted bitter. We liked sugar. I liked sugar. They liked sugar. Sugar was good. Everyone liked sugar. My aunt Z liked sugar. My Nan Feldspar liked sugar. My Granddad Feldspar liked sugar. We watched TV. There was an advert, a cartoon man wearing a top-hat shaped like a cigarette and the butt flowed with smoke and with a creepy yellow grin he was offering kids cigs but then Superman swooped down and said blah-blah Nick O'Teen! But I sided with Nick O'Teen. I was on Nick O'Teen's side. Superman was muscly and dull. Nick O'Teen was skinny and. And it was around then I thought I could predict things, events. It was cos an old lady lived over the road from the Feldspar's. Mrs Finch. She had white hair and like a crumpled, hollow face. Someone rang the Feldspar's doorbell and I heard a voice saying Mrs Finch is in hospital. I was on the settee. Chairman Mao was talking on TV. I thought: Mr's Finch is going to die. Days later I was on the settee when the doorbell rang and my nan answered it. When she returned to the living-room she said: Mrs Finch has died. And in the evening's in bed I thought about that. I thought I'm not going to die.
