WALKING HOME FROM THE ROYAL TANDOORI

                   Jewels in the fog,

                     dead trees budding diamonds

                       that wait blindly for spring

                         beneath concrete Babels. . .

                   Thought feeds on emerald traffic light,

                     alcohol dulls the mind

                       to the dullness,

                         to the yawningly necessary dullness

                           of the unacceptable acceptance,

                             opens it to fog and its stark sparkling

                   (and this is all we have).

                   The alcohol molecules are at work behind the eyes

                     suppressing the clock that says too late/too soon,

                       allowing for an acceptance of the now-fog

                         now-night now-heart-beating of the sated

                                                         predator

                   (and this is all we have

                     all we have this).

                   The fog moulds bodies, grasses, buildings

                     - where the bodies are the fog isn't -,

                         caresses the skin -

                           fookhin' 'ell!

                   Electrolysis without bubbles creates an excitement

                     - you say it's the ale -

                         that plays the body down streets like a violin

                                                                    bow

                   AND YOU ARE IT

                     (all we have is this).