At the Yeats Vs. Crowley Café

I trumpet my snot into a non-absorbent napkin
spellbound by the sun
imagining the magic of past present future
in a full English breakfast
outside
as the silver tables
glow like
mmmmmmm(scrying mirrors)

mmmmnYeats is bob-a-job bouncer
mmmmnat the Isis-Urania Temple
mmmmnanswering to the sobriquet
mmmmn‘Demon est Deus Inversus’
mmmmnwith a professional pugilist
mmmmnfor back-up / alter ego
mmmmnas Crowley stomps down
mmmmnthe learning-curved road
mmmmnin mask of Osiris
mmmmnand Scottish mini-skirt

mmmmnfriends come out of the sun
mmmmnsaying “we live in the sun”
mmmmnsaying “come join us, friend,
mmmmnfor truly this is the cheese
mmmmnmmmmnmmmof the gods”

but I’m bilocating in a lunar forest
with huge discs chunks slabs of moonlight
like manna on the forest floor
or slabs of chewing-gum in the yard
of the DENTYNE factory we robbed as children
mmmmnl(a rites of initiation)
terrified of security guards and guard-dogs
or gum laced with rat-poison

ah friends
the Age of Horus is over

my snot – on the white napkin –
is black with pollution

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