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William Park

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The Damned

I fled through. Gap, Racing Green,
H & M, wearing the ragged clothes
of the damned, tried to loosen
my collar, attempted to lose
the signs which followed.

Found blood on my shirt,
fresh from my finger,
bled into Boots and searched
for plasters, the answer; avoided
the appearance of truth.

A blast of heat: then out,
confronted by beggars, until
lost in the crowd
I knew myself to be short
of a coat and a crown.

Hotfooted it to the deserted side
of town, shoved by a demon
who slipped me a grin, extracted
a fiver, told me hell
was just round the corner.

Couldn't see for walking,
fell down the manhole -struck
the stranger, blamed him
for my lack of a foothold
with an accurate, bold expletive.

Judged in the small court
by a beak with no wig.
Found bars to peer through,
was tarred and feathered with threats
unless I rammed a devil.

Aquinas was right:
a man is down among the fools
if he's lost his distinction,
my teeth chatter like the sound
of storks in a translation.

 

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