NEW POEMS A Single Skuller Living Skin The Final Whistle RECOVERED POEMS The Island from Rosemaries Riverbank NEW PROSE My Dominant Characteristic Life as a Serious Person The Little Talker |
THE FINAL WHISTLE
On Being Boiled in Oil If I came to be suddenly plunged into boiling oil I think my adaptive powers would be challenged beyond bearing. Yet I’d make a good soup for an undiscriminating monster. This would be no consolation beyond the happy thought that my life and death were not ultimately in vain. Clever cat The beige feral is cute, being careful not to shoot his evil eye on potential doters. So he eats well. And in the night of cats he can muster master strategies in splats with rival right bastard toms who tum the pussies, the phalanx of sissies. D’accord ‘I think the world of you.’ ‘That’s not saying much, knowing what you think of the world.’ ‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’ The Raising of Diego The hand of God has been withdrawn. Maradona has marred his don. Still his sacred legs stagger on, though hamstrung by loss of form, at the edge of the box. He’s not going to turn and hit the net. A penalty is his best bet. Or an own goal. It’s him that’s shot. But as the final whistle blows for full time, the fat man steps back to score a goal, the last attack in the game, and the crowd rose to their feet. El Diego lives. And it was done without a throw. Only a miracle (I know) explains how he regained his gift. While the Ref’s devil advocate in Rome reviews action replays, I’m already sure, heaven be praised, it was Pantini, Diego’s mate. When Marco was martyred, the sole big name at his disparition was El. So justice has been done. The saint of cycling made him whole. Honesty in Private Life As long as you don’t tell the people the truth in the eyes of the world you’re beyond rebuke. A lie to save your face is a sensible ruse. They would do exactly the same in your shoes. The Last Word For the Unnamable (deceased 19 January 2007) When it came to the last roll call for the old cake of the Creole, no one knew that he had a name. We had learned to cherish his innane smile, that so cheerfully evinced understanding. Of that we’re convinced. And the uncertainty of his teeth. They wobbled around, cheek to cheek. Was he a drinker? Yes, of air certainly. He sat on a chair in the garden suffocating with laughter, which didn’t have a ring. He widened his bouche beé to release a last breath, one that wouldn’t cease till respiratory violence broke wind, and his vow of silence. But nobody quite caught the drift. And so he died just as he lived.
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