Did Charles B smell of inky sweat
& stale booze – of rolled odours?
That oil from his skin? It could’ve
greased a ship’s slipway [or fried
a sly heart attack brunch for us]
…/
Listen – dear readers who yearn to dredge
my mind/ You cruel voyeurs will suckle for
viable insights/ You’ll read to refresh fury/
Such versified rushes were never obvious
…/
I will move to Barbados
& sip cold beers as light
winds tease me to sleep
in my hammock [as my
belly slops loudly …/
It begins – with an appetite [he said]
to discover my self-respect [ah yes]
to redeem the day/ So the day does
not go down in debt [he had said as
he looked around his Tower of Song
…,
He bought a paste jewel
in order to undo her bra -
[& she said it as b-rawwt -
it was sweetheart time to
bare her thickish-charms]
…/
I cannot move on
again – upheavals
of beds & boxes –
there’s part of me
unable to operate
…/
RULE ONE – Do not write poems
about your night’s dreams – but
who cannot when slept delights
fix so many things [without glue]
…/
I grow old – I grow old
& fear eating peaches
[without knowing how
poetry works] …/