Home is for the Vain

Every street a gentle reminder of lovely death—
Every trip lined with spirits taking their aim—
Amongst bin-liners and dog faeces lying like
Heroin-tipped bloodied needles within

Your grasp. Sharing sips and nicking swigs
With beer-lined belches: stomach gas: snapped
Twigs: truly husband material, as they say
These days. Locked from within, so mazel tov!

One and all: each aspect of man’s mistake
A sure-fire sign of bastardry. So open up
To let in the leering licks of lecherous time,
Enjoy the vile caress of slow degradation

As would a whoreson or whoreson’s son;
Each street holds the lurching singletons,
Each set quite apart: two paces: a walking image
That speaks to the facts, the simple documentation

That acts as will to the culture quite deceased.
When what you took for entertainment degrades
Into but an earnest socket’s worth of fun,
One must consider what took them all the way;

What was it I said to bring about such boredom?
Stifled to breathe! Too bland for own-brand cans
Of sweetcorn and the like; deluxe, just taste the
Well-earned copper tang upon the tongue.

Together, we can make some tyrants from clay—
Watch them goose steppin’ — a puerile half-witted
Dance in which they lose time time and time again.
I dance too, a jerk, a jumbled ember tied too tight.

What is it he holds in that crippled hand?
Why, it’s an epic — he composed it himself!
Yet it will burn, and the title fades, as does
The poor, deceased author, into a realm of esoterica
So pure that none shall know. None shall know:

None shall deify nor compare; none shall begin
The process of canonisation: and none shall say,
What vanity is this? Nay: none shall know,
Not even in Heaven’s sunly glow shall it shine—
Consigned to one’s own home of the vain.


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