Dry Me, I’m Alchy

You want philosophy?
Your short end of the fudge stick?
All stories true
Some relevant,
None complete.

Few matter
here hurtling
halong the ‘arbour quay
on Helen’s husband’s Harley’s
handlebars, doing me knees up
my flared and flaked nostrils,
nares aflame
and nary
a narc
in the nursery

but is wagering
a week’s wages
he can pot me
pardon the phrase
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

The Parrot, we call him that,
talks a lot
and is in deep donkey
with the Law
caught short with a long tin
of CAMRA bitter
he was spilling with 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.
I looked in
on Sue down in Apartment
G.   Sue swept

though I cried
all my things in the bin
her chary jut racing a Rénault
for last seat on front row
at Harrow
where Ted was put down
his name I mean
at birth
as a barrow boy
or cricket cap.

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
generational descendant
for example
blinded by his own incessant
punched his own ticket
while crying You’re Out
and gave his game away
Pull the Other One.

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