THE DRUNK

Whisky is the flame he warms at

while his hemisphere tilts from shadow to sun to shadow.

A tongue of song for his friends

(who are corn to its scythe as quickly!)

sings now by a cold hearth.

Sad schizophrenic.

Street-corner orator,

mocker of the church:  ' all its baubles and beads...   its opiates...'

dancing now to silent music.

Marx, his hero, would shy away from such a sight:

a ‘party-member’ who, with nails of gold,

has manufactured a crucifix.

tin horn blues  -

a drunk vomits

into the litter-bin