WhatI've been meaning to mention is the folding machine;

how it's truly a marvellous thing and I want you to see it.

And I want us to take it to the beach or to visit Stonehenge.

The noise it makes when I set it to work is loud. Like the over-zealous

in the pub it wants to be heard. How I love that sex grunt,

that cha-cha of doing. Tap out the pain. I am repeating myself

but look, the folding machine again. It's not trying or trying not to

distract itself. Trapped in every second of me is the folding machine.

I want to put it beyond use. One dayI'll throw it into the grave

of my loved ones. It is so good at what it does. I tried to re-invent

the folding machine. There must be a first bit, a second, connections,

cogs. It's in me, stuck between my head and heart and my other

unnumbered, unlabelled parts. Reassemble and repeat. Sing: we love

the folding machine. It must be something like the sun, or the moon

at least. The noise. The casing of it! A miracle. The papers spilling

perfectly at the end. An end to repetition and patience (which is pain).

Someone made the folding machine. I tried to re-invent, repeat.

That clever, co-operative order of parts, that do and do and make

no apology for being one way and then another, that try and fail.

But try not to fail. Sing too loudly. Be exact then not so, fixed then

broken,

need instruction.I'm waiting for it.I'm waiting for this thing to exist.