W6 9HA

 

Now then, now then guys and gals...don't those eyes look a little familiar?

I'm on the inside, looking in

on where I keep the me-in-me

and seeing someone else within.

Somebody I knew I might see:

I knew about the tracksuit and

what happened isn't news to me.

I knew about the consequences 

back when I first made the deal,

the same one he did: easy access

and deniability

in return for handing over 

that unfungibility 

that some will say we know from birth

and some will say we strive to be:

the signature, the fingerprint,

the you-in-you, the me-in-me.

We give it up so easily.

So I watch my sorority's 

photo opportunity 

give him the publicity

he hungers for eternally

anew. Adieu. To secrecy.

The Tracksuit

 

They keep it in a vitrine in a hidden room

on Matthew Parker Street. They burn

cigars before it daily, read his wishes in

the shuffle of recordings: TV, radio, his DJ

sets and interviews, his patter randomised,

things set out in his second, secret, will:

his wish to fuck the Baroness

post-mortem, for example. Take instruction 

from a ghost, Burke's partner literalised

in Hinton's neverending now. The ace

of shades who fixed it for them after

2010's dumb luck, who modelled how

to play at sainthood while alluding

to desires left unspoken. The man who

knew what gets the British going

is bacon rolls and doubletalk and stunts

and plastic flags, and creeping worship

of Britannia's corpse's cunt.