THIS WALLPAPER OR I
Touched by the past he
carries the book
caressed by the hand that
skimmed the hem that
stroked the beard of Ginsberg,
sceptical of all sceptics and
overwhelmed by his own intellect
eating Scotch eggs on the steps
of the Courtauld Institute
he queues for his anointment -
if it was up to the socialists
they would guillotine all priests
and he loves a man in a
well-cut cassock
strutting
down the Strand,
a borderline mundane
who sleeps in the doss house
and dines with bourgeois aristocrats -
cravats, waistcoats, sham marriages,
plane crash tales and collective
smugness of survival,
even by a long shot,
even by proxy.
Slowly,
like a dying crow,
he claws at the
wallpaper of life.
Here’s Lucy’s new Poetry evening that she will hostess
