I know that leaping from balconies
and staircases
and running past the bewildered,
chamber players
has never felt so good.
So sorry to say
that the thirty metres of velvet
between here and the gold-leaf doors
cannot equate the disconnect.

It’s simply a development
of passionate stoicism
- or so it seems.
There lies buried in
poor posture
an engine for this
“lack thereof”.

So run harder, Simon
your days are numbered
and they’re coughing into
tall glasses of champagne.

Though beneath cordial amusement
they understand,
in spite of years
far from kind.

belated can only hint at
beer-battered reflexes
and trans fat.
It’s moving slowly,
insuperably towards
this and

"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."