I became a Buckingham Palace guide for death.
I timed my transformation to the instant (8.51)
I climbed aboard a Piccadilly Line train.

Look, admire death’s portraits and its corridors.
Over its flowers I would rearrange the flowers of yourselves
In the vases of your bodies.

My bones were an embroidery of the air.
This was no loss of life but a culmination.
My body was a set of mosaic pieces destined for this instant.
My violence, a kind of art, a dream language, like music
Something scribbled in the surprised air.

When it subsided-my ragged portrait-
The police and the army were my tourists.
They entered, looked around, took photographs
And spoke in hushed tones.
I had blessed the train with reverence.

I am the man with no head and a bar of chocolate.