he was a technician

he came between my father’s halls
he had a road map to a syndicate city circus
like Buddy Holly on the gram
splittin’ curfews like it is somebody else’s business
too immured to cure, the state secret
for Elmore and triumph hotels
split between the elephant wayes

this staunch circuit of indecision
doesn’t bury Paul Mel Sauvignon Blanc like crime
like winter poses in the deep
in the forest
lacking for time
for dismissed ontrad pearls
just a donkey for the master-class
trupin’ on door steam
waiting for the army