Coolest cool cooler you ever had

The coolest cool cooler you

ever did have was a retiring place

in that park in Madrid.

And who with, you can’t 

remember: but you remember

that granizado like

it was yesterday and a little less and

maybe a goddamn more it 

meant.


And today you had another in

presence maybe of 

another, or maybe the same but

if the same she ain’t the same

she then was with you.

And though she ain’t the same, the

shame is yours too: and you suddenly 

realise the things you must do,

and so you tell her straight 

and it’s hard work, it is,

but if you didn’t 

you’d never be working again.

(And maybe that’s work 

as in machine needs to function,

and maybe that’s quite something else.)


And so you realise they

were right: they’d analysed it

brill – quite beyond the hills you 

were rolling down and

climbing all the while: 

negotiations unseen

by the perspicacity you

claimed and celebrated for so

long.

And the paranoia 

you felt – yes, real enough it was:

obstacles arising and

imposing on your every 

step:

on your words,

your writings,

your sex and

your

urges to simply speak 

with anyone and everyone you met

about nothing and anything, and 

everything you might.

So nothing but 

nothing was beyond paranoia’s

grip:

yet the hit men and women of

your life weren’t without (in 

that corp-

speaking sense, I mean; that

weirdly numbing feel of terminal

dis-

location which took you 

over and 

over and

over, out the pen

that was your home into the pen

that was your boundary: a frontier

which ass-fucked you back and

there and

back instead);

and the sin, if sin it was,

was partly your fault for permitting it:

and the enmity wasn’t out there

but within.

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