Peter Pegnall
10.
Might as well talk to yourself. Go ahead, play with your private parts, it’s the big event, mumble disconnections, repeat what you’ve read or garbled. All your golden words were lent, the weight of history spangles your ignorance brackets your collapse. A boy with an odd stare fostered by Richmal Crompton, D.H. Lawrence, chirping off-key wonky eye and curly hair, Bob Dylan clown-prince of your would-be antics your dark side of the coffee bar blues. (Who could forget your wrestle with semantics, your gypsy enigma, your snakeskin shoes?) Drink it all in, veined somewhere in middle age, too fat to tango, too choked to leave the stage.
63