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