The pain it appears has passed,
a twisted and not strangulated
abdominal fibre of being,
fleeting, frit, clinging,
nagging little sod.
All dead in crash.
I as usual am none the wiser,
interested yet not especially engaged
to task myself too hard (life’s burdensome
enough, my excuse, get out clause – life’s too short).
Who knows what the light will bring?
He’s passed again, a quick in and out,
minding his own business,
being as little trouble as.
My head! Doing a tango, having a wobble
at the drop of a hat, hearing pins drop.
You know, you know.
Night creatures: silver fish, monopods,
opaque gadabouts – a proper rumpus.
Alexander’s Ragtime Band
cut throats and ruffians,
red and rubber necks, craning,
onward to the din
Slasher and trombone