Artie

By a train last night, i swore faithfully to Jesus, no more of that all right, a woman travelling to Naples, rocked me gently, and said everything's OK, she talked of a writer, called Andrea Camilleri, and kissed me quietly, I take photographs with lights, I see what others don't see, how the girls have died, when you know they're made, glamorous, perfect, serene, it makes you scared, to see them without life, don't mess those heeby jeebies, my soul strung out tight, beg help on St Anthony's quay. to a perfect nought, every part of thought, in their eyes amour, fresh linen and Eau de Cherie, the soul of lost hordes, all of them taught, by the garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, I see the poor, cross Catherine Street