Old Men Staring

The number of these old men increases
daily. They hobble about on sticks, their
hair whitens. Their calculating eyes (dead
now as frogs’) no longer jump, shiver
computerising intricate stock prices …


The struggle’s at last over – sword ‘s in scabbard – pens
are lodged on inkstand – ledgers are in locker – horse
(charger) has escaped his stable, is out mumbling,
awaiting the final bullet in his pasture.

All these old men – having lost their goods – boots –
The sum of their chattels –
can expect lumps of sand (a few
wasps) & scarcely a hint of jam on their buns!

So let them freely stare at your fine bosoms, your
Tanned & oiled legs, your slithering swaggering bottoms,
As carefully (toothless) they exhibit their return –
But to destinations unreadable ! – tickets, girls.


These old men ( their numbers are rapidly increasing) are whittled away, physically & mentally, to practically nothing. Although they have lost their other interests & sources of comfort, & have little positively to congratulate themselves about, they are still deeply stirred by sex & beauty. They stand on the station platform (overlooking a nearby beach ) showing tickets to destinations which can no longer be read, but these are perhaps the places they haled from originally.