GOLDEN AGE

Unkissed and aged about sixteen, my skin was glowingly pristine;

its bloom was smooth and cutely simple despite the odd demented pimple.

Yet now it is incredibly obscene, more like a disused military latrine:

the cord from chest to tiny dimple needs covering with a modest wimple.

In France or Trebizond a desiccated pond

will be inclined to crack and yet – alas, alack! –

I feel that I’ve been conned and doomed to dire despond:

my own pond’s drought-attack gives skin that’s trenched and slack.

Let’s hang out our triceps on the Siegried Line

till stiffened out by rigor they don’t sag any more;

let’s roll out all the barrels of our paunches on the Rhine:

against Bavarian bellies they are bound to score.

When I die, like a stuffed waste paper basket

my memories will empty into night.

No make-overs please: just nail down the casket

without valediction or holy rite.

Protect me from this Croesus curse,

its creases and its old fool’s gold;

empty out my wizened purse

of counterfeit and fleshy mould.

Cannot plié, tits contrary,

groan when struggling from a car;

my scalp is bald, my ears are hairy,

I’m overcreased and under par.

Older than I oughta,

my days are getting shorter.

Finally I’ll drop

at the last full stop.

Never a fixer,

found no elixir;

time didn’t last:

it simply passed.