THE DEMETRIUS CLOCK
The words are mine; and ideas are
like fighter-jets scattered in the sky.
I'd wished to say John Ashbery said
that, but I really don't think he did.
-
I am, instead, sitting back, reading again
'The Autumn of the Patriarch' and wondering
where things are leading. Dead dogs in the
street and a promontory on the ridge. It is
like page 210 or so, where that girl is talking
about fruit being eaten out of her pussy or
something. You can read it yourself, I don't
care. Cats and dogs, let's say, they are not
here; and those 'par-boiled malangas up the
behind,' they leave me without speech.
-
The way I see it - a smart thief goes to
Locarno to hide; a dumb thief goes to Rome.
He can, in his stupidity, be apprehended and
hung with the Pope or the Bank Ambrosiano
brothers from some stinking London bridge, no
longer among thieves with nothing to give.
-
And anyway, why travel so far to be duped
by a goon? Once the money's in, there's really
no need to worry, and you can cover your tracks
behind you. The Demetrius Clock in the old
central tower keeps ticking its bells and whistles.
One need only but listen to learn of the hour.
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