The downhill man

Versace rags for clothes
He has powdered his nose
Quite appropriately
On the snooker table
The downhill man
In a hurricane
Tumbles
And the mighty fall
Frail a frame
and cigarette ash
triangle the tray and stub
the mountains of ready rub
reeks of nicotine
His polished teeth
Show off the sheen
Of tartar and tanin
He is glammin it up
As he staggers
With jittery movements
He heads for the cloth
Trembling hands soft
A lamp like moth
about to burn out.

Pot the yellow with mustard fingers
tear the green
and wither
wither with the boldest of names
the beginning of the alphabet
and the stamped words
in glass bottles
spell infedelity
and downfall
chalk blue with alcohol
as the cliff hanger
white ball
takes trajectories unplanned
the turn of the hand
rolls over green to die

under spotlight
and dry coughs
under hazy smoke
and corporate scoffs
when you lose
but most of all
wither

The final frame
Is the final clout
Of galvanised nails
Where once gold guild was implied
In coffin lids
In an epitaph
Chiselled
He glides only under
No pocket of wonder
Is a saviour
No cigarette sponsor
Would act braver
Than to wash their hands of him.