sometimes i hear marianne faithfull’s voice
behind the traffic and next door’s tv,
singing like god with a bad dose of the flu,
warming me like rough brandy in my ear.

i realise she is not really there
but then, neither is god. but she exists
and harmonises with our strange weather;
duets with the voice of road construction,

which is more than you can say for jesus
who never sang, as far as we’re aware,
not like a cello dying in the street
anyway, carving love from the night air.

but if he did, would it be sweet chaos;
cracked, imperfect, like a death in the choir?

Originally from North Wales, Roddy Williams lives, paints, writes and works in London. His poetry has recently appeared in nth position, Defenestration, 63Channels.com, Aesthetica, The Rialto and Ink, Sweat & Tears. He was also last year shortlisted for 'The Bridport Prize 2008'.