sometimes
in some untidied rooms
of the old Babylon Hotel
there are no more plastic mules or cheap pictures,
theyve just evaporated from lack of touch,
and the night lights sunk without a sound through
the carpet into dark
and so nowhere any crusted
human trace on anything at all, curtains
only the dead flies
and the stagnant light upon the ceilin
together buzz a low semiton.
two thick ropes lie on the floor
like somnolent, gravid snakes
and answer no one on the telephone.
in the middle of the room, sitting alone
the so-called Strong man with vast biceps.
playing patience, smoking ground
bird plague with a scent of dark cherry.
he claims he has all the bounty of the world
but nowhere does it say that he is god
neither in his ID
or driving licence or in the files.
days at a time he does nothing
only nibbles letters from a bag
instant soup, instead of the television
el nino on his window casts
always new kamikazes
breathes on his gullet, curses in the liver
coughs out in fear
small nails amd clips
wipes the dust, the old dust
sings a little dirge
when shall the valet come in
when shall the Good beat
and plunder me and
bind me to the chair