There was a ballyhoo of parakeets, light sliced
through the crown of pines, a girl with an enswell
for my eye and a nickel for my ear. Born again
union men in file by the bus stop dicing nougat
into scanty cubes. The locals said flies were visitants
of the saints. At Hickory Bay the scallop squad
were knee deep. At Loch Enemy: a fagged aqualung
wept ashore as more diurnal detritus. A croupy voice
told me unwhisperable things, showed me photofits
drawn cack-handed by the memory wiped.
Cordite on the mistral and my desire was DEFCON 1
when bouncing ricin fell to a rhapsody of I fucking need this.
I was the last of the pack to attack and the last to fall back.
I thought manmade remains and ran with it.