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Too much of my life so far has depended upon dressing-gowns, Some sort of ‘string-theory’ tied by myself wax-thumbed Amongst our handmade mélange of sawdust, gold, gunpowder Wrapping your old whatever in brown paper or broken linen Plates with crests, double-barelled, sawn-off, lost of course Off course on Vietnamese coasts repeatedly, mapless, creased Thus padded, padding (bare sole to Afghan) puffing Cohibäe My tassels swinging luckily and nobody has ever been older Than me, or younger, I guess I once so wished it – Like polished concrete under-pied or Almanach de Götha even (Whose umlaut we doubt as we despair of half its entries here) Unthumbed – whisky echo – by regal paw for balconies aglow With what goes-down, “street” for the sun itself, on alp lips There blue to pink before a vaster twinkle of a grid Latticed, netted, spread hence in the sense of surely a valley One-by-one they each come on in private Christmastide Pinprick glow as if a pin pricked this map of avenues Awash, surged mit electricity atingle to all didgit’s tip – Whilst I myself, pompous so, am not doing anything – Other than otherwise worrying the worry-beads while pacing Plain wood floorboard planks warm to flesh from full Days of blaze aslant across mere tumbled marble balconies My almost Emperor’s tent-flap (gifts!) floats asunder freshly And thunder, oh, our old stage villain, thunders north reliably –