AND THEY WERE ASHAMED

                         Ha ha ha!    he he he! 

                   They covered their breasts in shame.

                   'You can't catch us out now,' they cried.

                   'We've never been sold a toothpaste tube;

                   we know the lying words;

                   we know the shallows of the deep;

                   we've covered our naked hearts

                   in a carapace of scorn;

                   we know all the answers to all the simple questions:

                   they are complicated, they are complicated!

                   We've plumbed the depths of the toilet bowl

                   with turds and paper and turds and paper.

                         Ha ha ha!    he he he!'

                          The tears of the old poetic clown

                   that start in the eyes and rise to the stars,

                   that splatter the face beneath blossoming smokestacks.

                   that come to his fingers like blood to their eyes:

                        these tears are crocodile tears.

                        The love that's bright clothes in a dusty street

                   that ignores the old man who pauses in the dusk,

                   that burns in her hair like evening bonfire smoke,

                   that moves the hips with pity:

                        this love is cupboard love.

                   Weigh your words carefully, weigh them with care.

                   You must not for a moment let them think

                   their kidology's worked on you.

                   You're tough, you're tough;

                   you've got eyes on your flies;

                   you know the lying words.

                   There is a moment when the door is open

                   and rainbows creep through the heraldic panes,

                   summer-cool, oak-cool in the hall.

                   But it's only a hall in the suburbs,

                   middle storey Tower of Babel.

                   There is a moment when the voices

                    join and the guitars and the pint glasses

                   and prophetic backward glances

                   moisten eyes over spume of Guiness

                   down Mexican way in the South End.

                   But it's only The Castle in the slums,

                   lower storey Tower of Babel.

                   There is a moment when the hand puts down

                   Nerval to switch on Albinoni

                   and sword argent cuts into night sable

                   to a shivering of stars

                   brimful with garlic, musique concrète and repeating brandy.

                   But it's only a flat in Rodney Street,

                   upper story Tower of Babel.

                        Goodness gracious!

                             fuckhin' 'ell!

                                  merde alors!