A hanged woman bareback in Brooklyn,
CIA music in a stolen Thunderbird.
The North Star is not me on that stage
of the eighties. I long for 1913,
a gypsy in a diaphanous V-neck sweater,
a great anachronism, a fixer for royalty
lost in an age of speculation and sepia postcards.
Now, my head reels with barrels
of work produced by a fourth generation of
scandal. Indeed, I’m a hostage of psychos
dressing and undressing
on the silly bridge. Prominence
is not what I’m about, I’m a grown man, a casual
pilgrim from Canterbury, waiting
for credit, impressed by happy misanthropes.
My own expertise? Audiences are disgraced
officers who’ve learned nothing but to remember
the houses they occupy. And I’m not
an English psychic but a persistent romantic
wanting to drive his car in a straight line
only to wreck it on left turns.