Jack Spratt

barking laughter coupling whoops of derision ricocheted caroming the baby poop beige halls
my lover knew exactly the nature of ribald photography depicting fellatio in a daily newspaper
once recalling an entire run The Sunday rotogravure cover depicting in detail the various and
many implementable mechanical modalities of preventing the birth unwanted children by 
inadvertent dalliances which sadly unused between us resulted in a foetus shred disposed in the
sewers of Manhattan with baby crocodiles flushed by parents from children’s circus trip grown
gargantuan inhaling entire school bus’ of children and their nannies drivers and keepers

retrospectively there had been one or two others women before whom I could naked stand their
recommendation: write! and before the last taboo of restraint mother who replied ‘you don’t need
my permission to write’ not then knowing either of us the consequence that impels words from my
loins through the speaking trumpet dad’s double stainless steal shot glass so like the image dreamed
of two glass funnels conjoined a modern version of Aeolian Gabriel's horn Maynard Ferguson ripping
brass High C above High C above that  ‘Yesterdays’ “Haven’t got the chops to do it again Jack” & he a
student of Gurdjieff and Miles who ignored me back stage Newport the image like us all gone soon U me 2 everything governed by Exxon meet and greet your posterior and kiss it goodbye two handed

frozen chocolate dipped with chopped peanuts covered banana she haply accepted free to pose
laughing bare midriff and succulent crop top squeaking really!?! irreverent, rude, salacious when
asked what was your intent I shrugged my shoulders kicked up black ink dust off the terra cotta tiles
twirling my eyes like a strippers tassels Alfred E Newman grin what me worry? Tom Wolf was her special
friend before me and when she said ‘my photographer’ by way of explaining my presence as her
taxi driver schlepper sho 'nuff honey child would you like to walk home i whispered into her pink shell ear
beneath gold brocade hair Lucy in the sky with diamonds reflected in owl glasses never in bed or ‘lay byes’

we double teamed Gloria Steinem two foxes and a dummy for which and others award showered then
the photo editor who though he’d given me a job otherwise sat upon my images with a glass eye his pants
around his ankles took me into a glass office where no one could hear other than the alcoholic chief
photographer who sat mute while he the cyclops artist tore me new orifices all over my body when
he ran out of things to accuse me of taking away his job winning awards the stupid copy boy didn’t know that
the majority were derived from stories discovered by me on the streets ‘have you essentially said everything
you wanted/needed to say? Silence then I suggested if he asked me the time of day that he should do so only in
the presence of a guild steward and never spoke to him again. Another photographer and I would speculate
the implantation of a cancerous prostate in rebuttal to his asinine presumptions the photog become a shrink

of the lover she who had two & i two about to lose both but not at that point in time she said ‘never change’
but that’s my secret name ‘chance’ its my nature said the scorpion to the frog both drown like the child who
would could can’t be born the affair magnificent died ever and always grieved she & all the women in my life
who inseminated me with words to come now here beloved like da Betsy G and 4m i a fucking terror with
camera and words am immolating my heart all over again here now be

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