‘Man, look at my suit,’
says Gregory to the crowd.

The crowd applauds the whiteness,
the poet in his drapery of romance,
a poor clown, in an expensive suit,
dancing for the biography’s page.

A fortnight later, ruined.
Bloodstained, vomit-splashed.

Ah, poor suit, paid for with books of poetry,
you tattered and debauched thing,
slept in, creased, greyed in tone.

‘Man, look at my suit,’
says Gregory to the crowd,

before grabbing a poetesses ass
and being shoved into a filthy canal.

‘Man, look at my suit,’
says Gregory to the crowd,

looking every inch the grand poet clown
and prince of the tombs that he was.
Unkempt and greasy, starving, and pissed
in a handmade Italian suit that was as beautiful as a slug.