the beginning quite glibly has just been run over, / a tram-car at Patriarch’s Pond whirled and pitched, / poor thing, it must have slipped on frosted glass.
the beginning quite glibly has just been run over, / a tram-car at Patriarch’s Pond whirled and pitched, / poor thing, it must have slipped on frosted glass.
Russia is blessed, for a group of Russians/ witnesses the end./ One from the gas company,/ formerly of the Ministry;/ sufficiently senior/ never to have acquired/ the demeaning capitalist art/ of charm.
I fall in love with/ night time people; the clerk/ behind the counter, with his trucker cap,/ his tent-like Megadeth tee shirt.
I hear the dead wish they could decide what we dropped in the ground: blood or wine or potato chip fragments, a left-shoulder toss of salt. Catch you in the eye. Better to leave behind for them than for gods or the devil.
And you in mind through all the apple rings the unseen villains ever-carboned into other/ leaves the distant notes interminably arriving – their tonics splaying outward over table/ runners echoing the chiming the nothing talk in the attempts to mop it up...
Gentlemen prefer blonde — Crystals/ Like that bitch in Dynasty/ Fake and cheap, it doesn't matter/ Honey sometimes; lemon always/ I will make you pucker up/ Marvelous upon the finger/ Mansfield
I keep thinking of him./ Simon was my wife’s cat,/ around long before me,/ and mean as a snake./ He pissed on the couch/ and stared at you with/ diseased greenish eyes
Why use this/ fork, why not to revolt, why carefully/ bump noun verb noun sans adjective, why/ wear a red flower, why to stay inside/ unless carrying an umbrella,/ why the sand must be wet.
We don't see Witching Hour/ stalking us at the hot dog stand on Twenty-Third/ in that silver sequin dress/ everyone needs
you're a beaten ghost man/ you're hundred year old toast/ poked by a Nursing home British Brigadier/ man