from Going On

These are the days of horrible headlines,
Bomb Blast Atrocity, Leak From Reactor,
Soccer Fans Run Amok, Middle East Blood Bath,
PC Knocks Prisoner's Eye Out In Charge Room.
Outside, the newsvendors ululate. Inside,
lovers seek refuge in succulent plump flesh,
booze themselves innocent of the whole shit-works.
Why has the gentleman fallen face-forward
into his buttered asparagus, Garcon?
He and his girlfriend have already drunk two
bottles of Bollinger and they were half-tight
when they arrived at the pace half-an-hour since.
Waiters man-handle the gentleman upright,
aim him (with smirks at the lady) towards his
quails (which he misses and slumps in the gravy-
baying, the while, for "Encore du Savigny")
He is supplied with the beaune, which he noses,
quafs deeply, relishes...sinks to the gingham
where he reposes susurrantly. There is
'63 Sandeman fetched to revive him.
Chin on the Pont L'Eveque, elbow in ash-tray,
as from the Book of the Dead, he produces
incomprehensible hieroglyphics, bidding
Access surrender the price of his coma
unto the restaurateur, kindly and patient.
These are the days of the National Health Cuts,
days of the end of innocent liver;
they have to pay for it privately, who would seek anesthetic.


Peter Reading