Pouring cigarette smoke into his tender throat, I breed my cruel children: balls of coughs, black swabs of phlegm, and a cancer in the post.

Cramming chilli and cheap meat into his turning tummy, I breed my mean army: a napalm of faeces dripping down the valley of his innards.

Once upon a time, I said: a fistful of dollars - don't spend it on the gym, and so I built my palace: his fat, ugly, warm and enormous gut.

Knuckling into his eyes, I crush the domes of their rival kingdoms like little eggs: blood-shot, exhausted, barely wanting to look, ready for the death of sleep.

His body teems with the poisons I have bred. Am I their Ruler? - his head might head-butt a computer or commuter, or some bone might deliberately break itself for a holiday of hospitalisation, or his eyes might vomit fat onto me the fist, or his faeces might climb up his throat to kiss a cigarette. His body a sudden civil war of such rivals, my children and conquests now my enemies.