Rendering Services Until All

A shark! I love boiled shark on Boxing Day.
Shriven, curried, served up with a salad.
The shark tin covers show one in a bay
but I know only the dish and an old ballad.
—Amor Yangtze, November 2012

You! Shark! Fierce creature of a nether god.
Taker of human life. Wondrous murderer.
Possessor of nothing admirable or cuddly.
Renderer of family values. Destroyer.
Eater of dolphin and human young.
—Fo Wee Islands chant 1982

RENDERING SERVICES UNTIL ALL
—Sign on lawn of Connecticut crematorium

‘The shark cuts through the pale and wriggling coffle
of little swimmers’ legs. It snags its lunch.’
‘No joking here!’ the Editor shouts. ‘That’s offal!’
I grab my coat, walk to my boat. I crunch
braincells seeking words for why sharks munch
on us—consuming kiddie kidneys, you,
me, and John Q. Public in its stew.
—Key Largo Standard, 13 August 2004

Couple halves, survivors of radial surgery,
spend their insurance and remaining days
of considerable pain in perpetrating perjury.
They lump sharks and conger eels and rays
into one blackened bubbly bouillabaisse.

They show pictures of spouses long deceased.
Their rictus smiles—wry, rough-stitched creased—
swing to ‘Go’ the referendum ballot.
Sharks will be as rare as ambergris.
—Note sealed in Jack Daniels bottle found in the industrialised no-go area formerly known as Great Barrier Reef, July 2003


To win the war on nature will require
destruction of the shark’s birthplace and byre—
the brine even sharks no longer drink.
Our campaign plans to give each man a sink,
a toilet, and one weapon that we think
will make the difference. When each family gets
a chemical plant we’ll see what that begets.
—National Security Council memo, 06/06/2005

The owners of America and its government
sit down together to review the facts.
Our long-life heavy fishing nets are good
enough to break the feeding bottoms up.
Drag lines, steel gaffs, and giant onboard freezers
reduce fish fleets below the critical mass
so they die out. That rubs out the sharks.

Wets and huggers of flora want a pause
but we who are present know that short-term yields
require aggressive progress …
—Briefing for the President, begun 23/12/2012

Dry Me, I’m Alchy

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.