what crisis?

 

nowadays they have to pinch the ends

of their cigarettes before they cross the threshold

no longer allowed to herd the crumbling swarms

of ash across the gingham veldt

 

outside the window, on the pavement,  lies a bible

and the radio declares their readiness is high

seems like a good night to let the smokers

in and warm around a last embered light

 

on the table I browse the “priest“ they called him

in the centrefold, deep in the heart, a flyer,

man’s journey into christ,

I guess we’ll find out soon enough the veracity of the divine

 

but until the young-un and the white horse riders

have decided who can piss the highest

leave us to the daily diary and its tales of

days of fucking each other’s husbands and wives

 

I bought a Dylan Thomas book one the way home,

from the junk shop,

when I got it back I saw blood on the back cover

I licked my finger to wipe it off but she said “no! you fool“

sure it carried the plague of some cursed lover

 

a drink is most definitely in order

the tawny coolness tock tick toxic keen as the

sharpest dissection

and then you can find me not just like everybody else but just like

everybody else lying hemi-hydrate below the bridled tension

of life’s meniscus