Poem
Cento after Peter Steele
Is this not running wild?
Silk-white ashes of dream and film
nerve into drama −
into darkness and its minotaur
How likely is it that the fellas who have
moved onto a place down the loop, who
are bricking their crossover, are named
Comatos and Lacon? That they have
There’s a still point in the afternoon
when the cross-eyed dogs
in the smudged pet-shop window
are a distraction:
Underneath everything we touch is the smell
Of something too obvious to express
And yet we say there is nothing, nothing at all.
We met at the end of the party
when all the lights were fouled
with drink and even the self-titled
Ouzo Animal was yawning in protest
The day the UFO stopped below the esplanade,
they interrupted the war for an ad break.