Waterloo is Deathproof

In Tim Wolf’s abrasive elegy Waterloo is Deathproof, experience is carved into the body. The body is carved up and served to those who bemoan the service. Somewhere in a quiet English church/General practitioners, a fontanelle miraculously becomes a birdbath - onlookers look on mournfully with motionless hands. The birdbath becomes an ashtray, they scowl in disgust. In this town there is no remedy, not even Wordsworth. Borough health plans come knocking at your door demanding your sofa, you are interrupted as you hack lines into the rotting wall. In the frosty morning, a mother’s love tends the sunrise - the light ascends and shines down upon the massacre, upon those who ‘strive for grace in death’. The local DWP Executive officer lets the hammer fall upon your head - a little daisy, a host of blinding, pretty poems. [publisher's note]