a fad diet of whiskey and biscuits,
polishing the mask of daftness and distance.
we tracked him down to a twenty four hour
a**ociated dairy on the edge of existence.
he was wearing super-tight clothing
to guard against any potential walk-ins,
warding off alsatian faced spirits with
a permanent cloud of twenty benson and hedges.
he spent his whole summer wondering
if it was dancing that let the devil in.
he could sense he was developing the hunger
of a man many years younger for the crumbs beneath his keys.
the sad sum of his ancestor word processors.
they had all clubbed together to send him on a riverboat tour of the irwell, up through the sludge - dodging the draft of the war that can never be won, he was transformed from tv through outdoor into an advertising hoarding. the serpents were boarding as he put the finishing touches to a short story about a bird and his boots set in the days of having something to lose...
(you don#t sell a soul in one go but instead it is through thought and deed you see it slowly erode or recede, if you will. and you will).