i.
You might recall sly stooping, a little
frozen rancour on the turnstile.
A ladybird caught in the corner
of my mouth, pubic hairs
between my teeth. Snowballs.
Slipping in front of a House of Cards.
ii.
And then there was the barker
belching, tempting good grace.
The taint of cockles and
whelks, snails on the puckered lip
of a lurid painted precipice.
A wall of sudden death.
iii.
Of course, that is the wicked thing
about detours. Shortcomings.
Often there is just dereliction in
addressing the germ of things.
iv.
And again. The old lady in the sideshow
booth was only so much of a charlatan
as demand allows. Fair game for change.
A pastry in a blonde wig on a Saturday.
Black and Tan. Ill.
Stiff as a motherfucking board.
v.
Rusting zippers and jammy fortune,
fair to middling. The running soft to firm.
Long gone now, I expect.
A faltered scam laid out flat on the slab.
Or spirited away in a puff of smoke;
There is magic in a gypsy funeral.
vi.
A halogen lamp on a stairwell. A bike
of wasps travelling in circus formation.
The unstung heckler at the back of the tent.
A collapsed lung. A handkerchief waiving.
Hammer and tong on a bed of nails.
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