And tell the truth – the tumult of various expendable

business plans, and the evening blinked in like a landing jet,

apparently graceful, in fact screaming nuts and bolts –

shaking metal plus desire equals travel industry bond

finance downturn explains his desperation –

he never got over the way his father hated him,

and shook a fist at himself in the mirror, rushing out

to join his pals at a gathering, cheese and wine

and social exchanges a whirling confetti – for a moment

the pack of snarling gibbons recognised something simian

about the crowd at the poetry reading, their embraces

heartfelt yet somehow insincere – talent

given muscle by a bicycle pump, show biz

slang and chatter bouncing off the plexiglass –

model twaddle, chop throttle, sling hash and babble –

there – I don’t remember a thin Singaporean

speaking gently into the handset about the banking

teletype network linking the island republic

to a pit of treasury dread in Yokohama – banknote

suction whirlwind – the old investment managers

fuck up due to lack of basic training in futures hedge

management – chattering over the sherry in between

profit and loss is not the safety rope,

he’d chosen to be an alcoholic, heavily crinkled,

a choice made up of thousands of little weaknesses

day by day, wearing down the rock of his self-esteem.

The young professors traded gossip and influences

– I had lunch with Mister Hartford – oh, really? – just

lunch? – like kids with cigarette cards and pictures of Batman

when they should be practising their knots and lanyards.

Now the secret no one talks about – lack of talent.

You see? Dead quiet. Her cow-lick was a flexible

bang, while the quay water alfresco wavelets

wobbled through those long railing antlers, bracket,

I mean, slicing up the light into vertical samples,

each related to the one parallel, drawing energy

from each other, a team of singing brothers –

one dollar smells like its sibling in the wallet – print,

print – there’s a ferry wandering and churning the surface

now sprinkled with rain. The thunder there

was hypnotised – widespread, miniature, far ranging –

flattering the city with dreams of a distant time

when everything was hunky-dory and a hamburger

was something to get excited about. Not the saxophone,

not the forgotten instruments, the cowbells

across the evening pastures, shit on the boots,

or the dew like crystal points on the morning radio

news traffic report not needed here, no traffic,

nothing happens in this town that God don’t

know about – he’s dreaming it, and we’re Him.