INDECENCY

       
 
          I'm a practising psychologist, i lied, and at once           
          The Lebanese restaurateur’s whole manner again changed
        – Back to that of an unflappable bonhomme of Culture.

          I tell you, he said    of this Galenza whom of you speak.
          Perhaps you be seeking him because he have escaped
          The clutch (clutches?) of your professional treatment.  Perhaps
          He too be waiting to be catchèd hand-redded for crime
          Of madness neither he nor you could begin to explain.

                                          *

          No, i sighed,   nothing that melodramatic, just a case 
          Of following up on the aftermath i mean career
          Of a young patient who, to all intents and purposes,
         (The clichés multiply and rattle on when you’re bluffing)
          Has disappeared off the face of the Earth, or something like…
          My voice trailed off lamely:   i no longer believed myself.

          Feeling i couldn’t match the Arab’s radio-ready
          Fluency made me realise i know longer knew what
          The point of my trip to yours-to-discover Loffdoff was.
          Could anything a dying pro chose to do once retired
         (That tired term making crass sense only as a pre-coffin
           Resolution to decades of respectable routine)
           Have a point, like some ambitious pyramid or arrow?

         (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)