I hope he wakes screaming with his teeth all fallen out
on the pillow of the dreams that were stolen overnight.
I hope the taste upon his tongue is iron mixed with salt
crossed with brickdust, faulty locks and crucified hate.
I hope for him a long life, epiphanies of bad faith.
I wish for him a hunger never silent or asleep.
I hope for him an ever present thirst to be included
on a menu made of marching leather boots.
May he swallow hungry tongues caked in sand, clay and dust.
May he feast upon a million futures.
May the throat of a stoat replace the brass neck of greed,
may it tighten and suspend every morsel.
Then we'll put him in the shadow of the wall and the world,
cover up the blowfly binge.
Open up the eyes to the wind and the wails,
and let the last minute be infinity.