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Gangland
By Paul Cameron Brown
A sailor, "tatoo you,"
the cigarette Players
with tape-deck playing
a jaundiced "Yellow Bird",
Cerveza, Dos Equiis, the
two horses, in red flame,
across the label.
Trolling in a deep sea-trench
(spinners and chubb),
the dark night
a religious procession,
acolyte stars in hymnal to the wind.
Across the channel
a Party Boat
- the words almost demand capitals
with actions so diminutive -
creased laughter "to go" cross the waves
flicker of lights, siren call
then a lemon shark strikes the bait
on anchor reel, Horse-Eyed Jack
perhaps borrowing the name
from the Outback -
think pantomime, enter Wahoo
and the aesthetic of fear
crazed fish jack-knifing the boat.
Someone produces a cheese tray,
warm wine
the small shark caught in a
role reversal lies bludgeoned
under the seat, even there
a halo glow surrounds the eye and
cobalt snout, but it is the grin
that takes the edge off antics
of the Party Boat
some bedraggled hundred yards away
this Death's Head cocktail,
"What's your poison" leer
teeth like naked light bulbs
against tenement stairs
protean hoodlum a millenia away.
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