Left wing, savoir faire Ageing flicks of my thin brown hair Like an elegy, soaking me, Drenched in the language of social mobility, But I don’t seem to mind The gruesome link between People and time; It’s an enemy, telling me The wheels of profit Are circling in the opposite. Life don’t animate - Just creeps up on you slowly. Surely, holy water Flows as normal water does? In Little Italy, I re-adhere. Sojourn in my guilt, Wrestle words as the apostrophes wilt, Let the elegiac question why Accidents happen or the well will dry. So some come, k** me quick, Tie me down To an anodyne drip,
To the will of god, And the people with sticks; For filled with the shrill They show much better that Life don’t animate - Just creeps up on you slowly. Surely, holy water Flows as normal water does? In Little Italy, I re-adhere. When the steeple cries, There’s a martyr For every pause. When a dozen die, It’s a starter for ten To the men Who proselytise that a life isn’t owned but atoned. They solidify, and in time become Blackened and martyred. Life don’t animate - Just creeps up on you slowly. Surely, holy water Flows as normal water does? In Little Italy, I re-adhere.