Rimbaud

After a passable meal while nursing coffee cups; amid the detritus of the evening, the conversation took an unexpected turn; as I was telling her of my love for poetry and in particular the work of Pam Ayers, she suddenly interjected that for her no-one dead or alive could possibly approach Rambo in terms of sensitivity, poignancy and sheer joy in the possibilities of his language. Though initially caught unawares I quickly recovered and agreed that in my opinion few films had approached the textual minimalism and bleak social commentary of First Blood, in addition i remarked that: “at one point he actually punches a mans head off!” On hearing this her nose twitched and her brow furrowed as the brandy we were drinking flushed her cheeks crimson, making her instantly and to an alarming degree less attractive. Emboldened by her libatory degradation I continued: outlining the plot of the yet to be released forth installment of the trilogy and regaling her with a series of astonishing anecdotes concerning both the weaponry and tactics employed by the US Special Forces (an area of particular interest to me, having as I do a large collection of militaria, including a pair of socks worn at my lai or mylae!). It became apparent (as I propounded my particularly incisive and it must be said dense theory as to the actual tactical efficacy of the exploding arrows used in the second film) that in a bid to impress me this girl had raised a subject of which she had little or no understanding, as I continued she appeared completely out of her depth: visibly confused, her eyes intermittently flitted around the room as if to establish whether other diners were party to our conversation and if so were aware of her blunder. Consistent in my chivalry, I moved to a more general discussion of war and guns, but in doing so I only further exposed the ‘poor thing’s’ woeful lack of knowledge, laying bare the pathetic nature of her conceit in masquerading as my intellectual equal, and in doing so undermining any respect I may have held for her. She had by this stage become positively hysterical in her embarrassment; giggling uncontrollably into her napkin tears streaming down her cheeks as she repeatedly apologised for her behavior. I gallantly accepted her flimsy pretext and called the evening to a close, allowing her some small dignity at least; though as she left it was obvious that the sad creature was in considerable distress as she abandoned the table and ran from the restaurant.

"i'm sorry, could you step aside?...
i seek to avoid any misguided discharge on my part...
yes, disrupting what appears to be a vat of perceived social impropriety...
no thank you; just there: next to that ridiculous asymmetrical container of magnanimity."

lifer john (provisional and incomplete)

lifer john

he's lifer john

and as such

he is lifer john

defined by his

life

and doing life...

lifer john.

"fucking hell mate!"

the bishops fingering

"Me thinks the lady may require a beseeding!" riddled the saturated cleric as with a single swift movement he disillusioned the young maid of her copious under-coverings and mercilessly barricaded her whimpering motherage with the rake-balding of his pulsing heredity rod. the licentious and mal-appointed maiden: ruddy in both cheek and demeanor cursed her contrary accent through filthy tears of acquiescence as the good bishop bellowed in tongues; what our poor unfortunate could only assume to be the Latin rendering of her promised indulgence, though these spittled oaths would provide poor credit with that final divine usurer, little did she know that many a violated and dutifully poxed milker had arrived at those gates only to find themselves laughed down the stairs by angelic hosts upon the rendition of said sad soliloquy; tearfully they'd waddle to the furnace and consider the folly of a life spent en-whore, albeit at the hand of a most noble servant of god.

Gide and Celine

holocaust denying bishop
denies
his denial
as denial

his aphorisms echo
across the Vatican Cellar
and settle silently
on the ears of a long forgotten relic

Cuban heels
crack staccato
under the cassock of a Westphalian cleric
'a rearguard action against bitter reform'

for now
an equating
of liquidation
with abortion
has effectively halted calls for 'his' rehabilitation