16


I've been working myself up for the january hoop-dive
by nibbling spelt on toast and coming to terms with the fact
that you can't listen to Purcell on Media Player while you're Googling Ms. Beart
                                                                          the horns get stuck          impaled
                                                                                         a sync-less
                                                                                   three-second    loop
                                                                                                  of     Laswell
                                                                                   redoes
                                                                          Pinnock
which I deal with by hard-wiring a copy of The Metro Poems for Win98se into the last available slot
and get off at Trastevere, even though Giulio Agricola is my stop
              all I can remember now is her hand still fallen
                                                                                   half off the plinth.
There is no sign whatsoever of Maderno on the 7.30 metro
no reflecting stars for Cecily on line one
it's all slag and bone
              got up earlier than thou
or sophisti-tart faces on disposable rollers for late sleepers
bent on sparking workplace
                                           backspace teen muff fear
                                                                     among bleakened males
remember when you reached beneath and cupped it in your hand?
              The first time
                            is like the last time
                                           and all the times between
so when seconds before being peeled off the tunnel wall forever
the Max girl strokes her isoperimetrics through sand-blasted denim hipsters
I shoulder my coo stick, stuff the Neil Young songbook sottobraccio
and start looking round for an opening
                                                                     a stair well
the browser crashes
and Purcell picks up
it's the Witch's messenger scene:
Mercury's goat comes clogging in on Blakey's
to Lee Morgan playing a night in Tunisia
              He's going to make a liar out of me freaks the tortoise
Belinda tries to reassure him by saying that you can't screw Texas Specials to a lute
but even a handmaiden's wrist is useless now that we've got Floyd Rose, a couple of Laneys
and some Eric Sardinas bar-code tabs for bendable tetrachord
              so I put on my sailin' shoes
                             flick the vallecular rim of my travelling hat
                             and head for the coast
                                           surf's up! quips Mercury
                                                                     get up offa a that thing
                                                                     says Dido
                                                                     Dance till you feel better





Milan         January 2007