it's not a statement i'm just lazy

we're dying with laughter,
dying on someone else's doorstep - yours  
a strange, bright glow engulfing the hallway  
that collapses into ultraviolent radiation,
old stories,  deserted laboratories  
and i was all of these things -  
the wastelands between here and Heysham power station,
an empty forest of pylons, a god
in the wind that cut a slack limp through Caton
and killed her windmills and her reflection
on the other side of the world,

watching the millennium destroy itself
in the bleached carcass of a synagogue.

i've admitted almost everything  and you are picking up speed,
you are racing the wrong way down the motorway
skidding splinters between rush hour traffic    
multiplying and dividing until the planet is a duplicate
of a duplicate of an echo imprinted
on the rearview mirror
in which we watched the reflection of ourselves
in each other's eyes -
you at the wheel,
me in the backseat shouting directions  
the road a black blur invisible
behind threads of condensation.

i'm trying to be honest,
but i keep tripping up in the river.  
it comes off in layers -
sheets of fat like gutting catfish in the Lune,
caught at low tide, gasping.