without even batting what could pass for an

ear nose or throat specialist’s peculiarly long &

delicate eyelid talking of prime-ministers & by

implication economics the price of legations &

corporate structures could ignite mass fireworks

for ever! a painterly abstraction of mardi-gras

festivity is blasé not quite a workaday dilemma

‘find me some money’ says jack to the now

modernly named children their faces dripping

with saccharine hate of things other they nod

as if the history of nods & that canon where nothing:

dust & bullshit! it seems implicit that jack himself

becomes flyblown refuse but progresses through

the rest of the next six months with a tiny badge

of courage printed on the inside of his thigh a

scar where his girlfriend got carried away or

maybe just the furious kick of a modern child

who cares! or knows or betrays an involuntary tic

every time we speak in that apocryphal ‘vague’

manner throwing away the past & spreading out

on a bed of cake everything is possible, jack, lines

are not spoken but edited in to this life subliminally