off-screen I climb
habitue of sunlight
into a sorta zen
rubato the wine
pours
by my neighbour
who's not embarrassed by
our pie in the sky
hi fivin' lifestyle
slapping our eyes onto
mags and movies
the blue view ahead
and our ears into
in-flight telephony
we're occupied
while terrorists tick
and hues continue
to zing
round this round
poor excuse for an
earth
I'd be satisfied
with Saturday in a caf
in the high street
or malling around in the dark
waiting for that goddam
electra
to burst forth in wrong
any chance of a chat
show hostess turning up
in the third act
played by dame someone
who oughta be younger
not pied or a paid up
political wench
someone straighter
and slick
a musical
nouveau guru
interrupting my
after dinner
apnea
with blogs from the periphery
and antedeluvian
clatter
time was
when this sorta thing
was in character
curiously
those crows who made so much clamour
at nightfall are quiet now