The modern dandy is a scruff
Whose clothes can never cost enough!
On public transport he refrains
From standing up – to crease his jeans.
His hair is gelled to stay in spikes
For fear of flatness – he dislikes
To wash or brush it – he disdains
He stares in windows while on trains
To check that nothing is in place
For tidiness would mean disgrace!
And should it ever come to pass
That he displayed a bit of class?
He never more could slouch among
The truly fashionable throng.
Time slips by me like a drunken lover, giggling and giddy in the moon’s unearthly glow. The lines that are appearing, poetry, wrinkled as a newborn, aged as the hills. I laugh to see my face crinkle, this new mask that gloves me and cloaks me and hands me a cane. Perhaps I should go toward the opera house, after all, I do seem to be dressed for it?
Shadows whisper in the twilight as I stagger downward, stumbling on paths I used to know. Old friends desert me, then resurface, years later, surrounded by the spoils of their own adventures and their own spoilt offspring, clamouring for the future.
I digress, moving at tangents from topics I no longer care to discuss. Is it all over yet? So soon? I wonder at my own, comforting mortality, then see the plastic faces in the papers and shudder. Not my pipeline, frequency, whatchamacallit, wavelength? Not my style.
And raincoats let in water, wellingtons are worn in place of sandals, underwear becomes the latest craze and the world sighs as it flops over, turning itself inside-out in the name of fashion.
I mark the seasons, birthdays, holidays, nights when I sleep well, with a sort of passing satisfaction. Nothing matters so much it is lethal, no problem is unsolvable, and yet I slow down, grinding to a halt, paralysed by movement, breathless through static. And all of Time kisses my body in a quiet portico.
I am bathed in sand, asleep, awake? I lie alone and listen for each passing footfall, each second, each heartbreak, each life.