on greenwich's fair banks, next to mistress thames,
beyond the green of meridian lines and the stones of trafalgar,
sits a man, digesting kingly thoughts. crumpled
and sideways alooking, berret jaunting.
he melds with colannades and is steepled in velvet,
smoked in caverns of jazz and quiet deserted dawns,
are you art? do you dissolve into rhapsodies of despair,
and wallow dirty in indulgency's angst.
i wonder are you happy or mute?

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