Sunday, June 07, 2015

or maybe stoats lofted, Biggles?

what are you like with heat?
there is a tide in the heat and beat
which if taken at the flood, would

what do you call a man with no head
no arms no legs no body?
it is a sort of rude joke and like seagulls
not to be trusted or rusted or thrusted
though no doubt the years have it
crusted. once I sat in a café in Cairo
watching a gang guy twist his moustache

the divvil, he said, they think I am afraid
from the divvil I am afraid from no divvil
which point he produce his flick knife
breathe hard. the divvil, he says

the divvil. by this point I study
indifference and his display falls flat
but is quickly redeemed by weasels
which jump over our tables

in a late-night kahwa. will, one thinks,
one, ever, find, ones, way, home

through these midnight weasels?
wreathed as they are in hashish smoke?

twenty five years on, the weasels?

wind in the arch?

we hoot and feel the resonance of masonry?
at least my parenting does this?

dick was the answer, didn't you know?

just like bob was the other answer

now there is the Theory of Everything

it's more complex than you thought
this weasel thing of love

first you have to answer your own joke
then twirl your own stupid moustache
then recognise your flick knife

most of all
see the weasels, the weasels

then find your way home
to find all the furniture gone

no one ever lived there anyway
what you thinking huh?

brevity is lost to me now
and you also, whoever


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