It’s where they bear the wherewithal of stars; where
the meta-talk—the cantabile—the cannibals use is used to turn their food
in to franks and beans; where the indirect object (‘for you’)is you; where one left
footprint left on a lonely beach (it was not lonely; he was), a track
to trace the trail back home;
where that man wears only his unmentionables—
still unkempt, still wet from sea water and sweat;
where Exquisite in Betweens is both a brand name and his raison d’être.
Don’t call them unmentionables, pal.
It’s underwear beyond compare, sir, silk breaches
that breathe ambrosia stain; it’s silken songs,
sung castrato. A cod piece for your fish, mate,
some place to store the oar…
In truth, it’s been perfected for and by the inmates here.
(I call them my mates, my intimates).
I’ll sell them for a song.