Dear Revd. W. A. Spooner, Mrs. Malaprop, The Revd. Thomas
I write in response to the advertisement. Clownlike I greet you at the
beginning of a bitter career. I applaud your vests. Here is a twist of lime.
My garments are odd and off-line: black gabardine cloak and perfumed Chanel
boots - the air around me is fragile like a rose.
I agree with the sentiment, those we want to erase must be erased. This time
I will name no names. Merrily let us burn the drear collections of the last
thirty years. Let us dance around the flames like pixies. Aloof! Mad CAPS! We
the crazies are re-seizing poetry!
Turgid past - cemented daises. Sirs, I apply for your school though I want
nothing from your school. We sing the new poetry of the nuclear, gin-soaked,
arriving after hours like spilled wine on fresh white blouse. We see the main
stream and we piss in it.
Yes we must be heard but we are happier if we are not. We must be un-involved
from the old regime.
We ride waves of prettiness at night and in the day catch buses to the
cemetery. Yes, our muse is amused, but contrary to your premise our heroes
are centuries old. We look at the old figureheads through 3D goggles. They
are grand. We don't like school, we don't indulge in thought. Mostly it is
not we but just I, alone, aloof.
In blissful neon jangle I stutter round the lemon grass lanes, happily I wear
the multi-coloured dream coat of Garcia Lorca, I take his shirt as he
greets me to drive to the coastline and throw nightingales at the ocean.
Star like your advert sings to me. This is an application for destruction. I
meet you but cannot join you. I apply just for the blissful rejection.
I look forward to winking at you.
The Grand Delinquent
*From the gin soaked
school of the new fanged regime