I wear dark glasses of the photo-chromic kind
but then I don't
give my eyes to everyone

across the screen

but there we go again
daring Baudelaire is not able to come
to my house today        think reader
here we have with the Bush/Blair wars
the most poisonous Fleurs du Mal
a bitter taste in the mouth
on the river just south of Gloucester
where the bank bends at Ma Ems pub
stood in the doorway in sunlight
drinking green tanglefoot cider
speaking politics and thinking
a very George Morelandish moment
water glittering
                                  in erratic waves
to the Welsh shore
that Marx (all that is solid melts into air)
was Capitalisms unacknowledged poet
a shiver of pleasure at such recognition
and hesitation question mark and parenthesis
the smoky core of ambiguity

in the flow
the seamstress stitches
her way under the shallow
crown of the skull