He walks in rubbish like the street. Having risen from

The waters like a painter and left his work for the less

Nice people to observe. The sea would be punk but’s 
   Too major

   You

Embrace Apollinaire

Like a

   Problem

or Robert Duncan

The Gen X

   Conundrum 
   Still Nancy or Stevie Nicks? Birds

Die in most scenes post-Surrealism

   The fashion’s to blue the whole shoe

   Skating around in spats made of A 
   But the water’s grimy

Like Cook, like Botany

Bay; and big gulls

Cry ‘Sid! Why haven’t

You gotten an Italian

Phone number yet?’ 
   Marsupial

Spectres inevitably efface St

Bartholomew’s Square

While old goddesses smoke Diana

Cigarettes, oblivious of the

Possibility of Dame Edna

Cheroots, or Iggy cigarillos

   They’re still reading 
   Pound in the

Polite old way, by

Saying ‘A pleasure’

To the text. Rent

Boys understand 
   ‘G’day’ and ‘okay’ (and’d better). New

Genres of control emerge from the printer, and

The ATM reckons you don’t have enough Euros