On route whatever, memory fails to serve,
blurred roses fling their mercenary blades
into the heart of placid driving. Death
flicks out a clear inaudible abrupt memento,
the noiselessness behind a splash of static
and back at once to WZL rocking X,
and all is fine, and fresh, and half-fulfilled.
In some true sense there never was a Rome.
In some true sense there never is a home,
and in some truer sense there never will be
(two lines attributable to Kim Philby).
The night has fallen. All barbecues are gone,
but stellar tylenol in dry handfuls pours
over the global villagers' collective nightmares.

Please send your feedback to Philip.