The next four songs
Are separate from what I think,
Twist what I feel,
Oppose me stubbornly in what I am…
I wrote them with my ankle torn from a fall
And, as such, they’re natural
And consistent with what I feel,
Consistent with what they’re inconsistent with…
When ailing, I must think the opposite
Of what I think when I’m flush.
(If not, I wouldn’t be ill, now would I),
I must feel the opposite of what I feel
When healthy,
Must lie to my nature as a being
That feels in a certain way…
I must be entirely sick - ideas included.
When I’m sick, I’m not sick for any other chose.
As such, these songs that renounce me
Can’t get rid of me
They are the city I enter at night, struggling on the pedals
from Trinity-Bellwood up to Christie Pits, and on to No Frills
My ankle’s killing me and it’s slow,
And the city’s wrenched opposite…or…the soul…