L’ESPRIT D’ESCALIER SUR L’ESCALIER D’ESPRIT (written in collaboration with Trilby Farthingale)

I’ve always envied people confined to wheelchairs.
If I could hypnotize a cripple into walking
I’d steal his wheelchair, because ever since I quaffed
the elixir I’ve been an incorrigible crook.

I have become comfortably numb

Barrel-assing like a getaway driver I plough
my wheelchair into a speed bump & catapult
skyward. I plunge head-first into the abiding
whiteness that fosters amity among
birds of different wingspans, because ever since
I started hanging upside-down from the shower rod
like a bat my conversations have been a trifle
one-sided: my only interlocutor is a belltower
no cunt has been able to accommodate, though not a few
cavernous perineal pores have been.

I have becalmed a palm oozing balm

She put on her Hell’s Angels jacket, chained herself
to the wheelchair, & rolled away in fervent
pursuit of a circus troupe, stopping only to
pick up a hitchhiker bound for a Megadeth concert.
Working as a circus hypnotist she kept a diary
in a matchbox. Once she read me an interminable
entry over the phone. It was a pay phone,
so she fed it quarter after quarter until she was broke
& had to hang up & go mug a midget limboing
under turnstiles en route to a sleepover. Because
ever since I delved into a slagheap to tweeze
a nacreous tongue, my only philanthropic
act has been bequeathing the contents of
my bus depot locker to my dybbuk.

I have bestowed what I owed on a toad

The wheelchair zoomed past, splattering me
with slush, snapping me out of my reverie
about stimulating your erogenous zones in a grotto
where schisms are brushstroked with compassionate understanding
so they can die in serenity in a freeway
rest stop. Wait–keep the storyline coherent.
Because ever since you built obsolescence into
the Nico-blondeness of the candleflame wavering
before the patron saint of Shanghaied rucksacks
you’ve been kissing your kite instead of flying it.
You cup its face in your hands & drink as from
an ocean afflicted with the tobacco mosaic virus,
littered with origami birds on which a dandy
has written quips from l’esprit d’escalier.

I was beheaded after being vetted for what I’d netted