Wild honey dripping down the door.
What a fiery nest in the eve
which not a single monkey
one of us cared about.
We’d spent an orange afternoon
splashing matt emulsion
Over furniture and scribbling lunacy
On walls. Red Gobella wrote a poignant
Piece about war-time Warsaw
In a back street brothel where his
Mother laid the foundations
For his unique appearance on
Planet Earth
A hopeless wreck of a dancer,
Mari Toussaint, on the hard spirit drinks
Clipped around the room like a horse
Never said or did much, just paraded
Around the ring we made of beautiful
Ugly armchairs. We just watched
Her move. That was all. Most people
Only need to move. That’s enough to
See their SOULS