Stopped Dead

A squeal of brakes.

Or is it a birth cry?

And here we are, hung out over the dead drop

Uncle, pants factory Fatso, millionaire.

And you out cold beside me in your chair.

The wheels, two rubber grubs, bite their sweet tails.

Is that Spain down there?

Red and yellow, two passionate hot metals

Writhing and sighing, what sort of a scenery is it?

It isn't England, it isn't France, it isn't Ireland.

It's violent. We're here on a visit,

With a goddam baby screaming off somewhere.

There's always a bloody baby in the air.

I'd call it a sunset, but

Whoever heard a sunset yowl like that?

You are sunk in your seven chins, still as a ham.

Who do you think I am,

Uncle, uncle?

Sad Hamlet, with a knife?

Where do you stash your life?

In your breast, in your vest,

In your haunch, in your paunch.

That snail thrill of breath

That start of heart.

You see I see a sort of a twig

That might just hold me

But not you.

You're too big.

Is it a penny, a pearl—

Your soul, your soul?

I'll carry it off like a rich pretty girl,

Simply open the door and step out of the car

And live in Gibraltar on air, on air.