To arrest the error
To tackle the devil
To offer steps to Sibyl
To unravel the riddle
Of trade perpetual.
I give you a séance/stance
Of monkey dance
And half a chance
To get to France
To fix the farmer who went to Basel
To clip my hedge
German or French
Watched from my floating note
With trail upon trail.
He seemed to be in the grove,
Where the eye meets dot.
Press send,
I said passing him
On the cross between Strand and Fleet.
Acknowledged as friends
Amid the bright din
A delete with unknown horn yet.
Wasted was this breath to stop his melody,
As he turned
As quick
Into traffic:
Walked across the road in front
The watch he had still watched
A world on its axis stopped
The flame was bright still and he fought
Then gave a rattle, a rally,
A man approached
The shoe traveling,
An air of hostility in flight
A vision.
Screaming inside amen.
Nothing goes inside this tank,
It’s called a bank.
Not even the pay
Which used to flow
Like the sound of music.
Yes, the hills were alive
And loaded.
Now we crawl around,
Inside this dry acquarium.
There are no fishes or loaves
With with which to conjure miracles.
Not even a blade of bread
With which to bury the dead.
With the mental strength of Daniel
And the paws of Samson,
This double of Ben Johnson,
My watchful Boson,
To you is dedicated my song.
In conversation rare was your rank,
Not just among dogs
But also amongst men.
In stuff that stuff is made of
Your friends included
Shakespeare, Bacon and Donne.
You said something
About a song adventurous.
About entrances and exits.
About my time as puppy,
And you as frat and yuppy.
My lead and its nexus
Imagined
Both of us in the arms of our mothers.
Later as gallants,
To many in parks or clubs various, a nuisance.
And after the canon,
A belly full.
Now finding ourselves crock
And circling almost squat
The shank of a walk.
With childish dreams and childish talk,
Our sight severe and at the lightest touch
To recall what might have been and weep.
Yet always the question with my eyes
I repeat:
If the son of King David
Had ten thousand wives,
Why do you have only one ?
Spread double,
My deal was no trouble
Until naked as I was selling
My meds took over the killing.
To diddle, the diddle.
To short the shilling.
Funny, I shouted “Geronimo”.
This bond of mine.
This heart of thine.
Outright here under shadow.
As ‘Trade, Bust, Credit’.
I am still just selling
Even my maths are barren
But my balls are golden.
And in currency
The skies themselves
Are what I call E-V-E-N
This flies to me
In the wars of algorithm.
I worship how fine it all is –
A moving average, uncorrelated,
To new levels of
My personal risk premium in the entire system.
I am to it and it is to me.
An identity invoked by everything that ever spoke –
These prophets have vowels that translate
To new levels of
Rogue trade gone postal
With all the answers and just one query:
On a street named desire/
An address at which to be merry.