Night Scene

Sham and dry brass, a Louisiana funeral march;
here comes the hero, gambiting along the aisle
to lay the armour of angels at her feet.

And from the barstool throne she jerks the cord
that runs down, through his jaw and neck and collar;
and chokes his bleating heart.

The magpie tender serves and smiles for tips,
her anti-freeze eyes shine between dark locks:
each the gin-bottle colour of trouble.

A new child of rupture sweats in a long coat,
too close to a screen of signal and noise:
screams out the line 'Jenny was a friend of mine'.

Junkies of love and criminal jesters and the lost prophets of drink.

Lovers of junk and feral gestures and the last drinkers of profit.