The Aqueous Cream has been poured on

with liberal effect to the scales that protrude

and cluster like some jagged rock formation

on a distant alien planet, dead, the atmosphere silent

save for the cosmic winds that ravage the surface

still further, slowly eroding it away, the dust

of a billion years dying a second time and settling

into comfortable oblivion.

 

I remember watching The Singing Detective as a child,

I felt sympathy for Marlowe’s plight and the embarrassment

of a nurse in helping an old man out, but secretly loving