You want philosophy?
Your short end of the fudge stick?
Sensational:
All stories true,
some relevant,
none complete.

Few matter here, hurtling
along the harbour quay
on Helen’s husband’s Harley,
knees up, nostrils flared,
nares aflame, 
and nary a narc in sight—

but he’s wagering a week’s pay
he can pot me—pardon—
or Helen, or her husband,
before we stash what
they say we’ve got
which we don’t,
of course.
And we can,
and will—
except if The Parrot
gives us away.

Have I left out
or omitted anything
redundantly?

The Parrot’s deep in donkey
with the Law—
caught short with a long tin
of CAMRA bitter
he spilled on Louise.

Dumb is our Parrot
and will stay so till dead.
Should know not
to halve six
with the tax man’s wife.

It’s hell on these handlebars.
Sue in Apartment G binned my things;
I cried while she binned them,
her chary jut racing a Rénault
for a front row at Harrow.

Stories are more relevant
than relevance itself
when related
in the rite weigh
they’re having down the Safeway’s
counter of love.

Childe Harolde’s forty-fourth
descendant, blinded
by incessant matriculation,
punched his own ticket
while crying You’re Out—
then gave his game away, adding
Pull the Other One.