Fantastic to be Lowry by proxy,
Confabulating him; to stand tongue-tied
In awe of yourself; to hold epoxy-
Resin postures rather than be thought dead;
To ape his helpless vamping and to fall,
Face down, upon Dollarton’s tide-machine,
Among odd jetsam to posture and flail,
Stark in the shallows, laved with soapy brine.
Who has not totted his black bile, Consul,
Where Qliphoth is wet coal and gritstone setts,
Spackled and wintry with hoary moonspill?
As vile an intro as the spirit gets.
Matter stubborn to be legendary
In situ: I fear they are off the beam,
Those masters who could break and brand fury,
Turning things back upon themselves for shame.
For shame my riposte here not better made
Than, picked from underlip, shreds of Gold Flake.
And I no smoker. Let it be; upgrade
Folie à deux to singular double-take.