Morning

So dawns another day, which makes how many? The burnished sea turned into the gentlest, most innocent virgin, the two-faced bitch in its morning glory. When now that soul sucking insatiable bereaver, masked in world bound ships' reflections, shimmering in the haze. Another morning, herald of a bastard day. Rising slothful to greet you, praises mingled with the curses of the nine o'clock queues. Girding myself in convention, trickle to the basin's edge, splashing, christen you Xeg the third. Why Xeg the third? Well, yesterday you were Xeg the fourth, and the day before, the fifth. In three days' time the world will end, so you see, I have timed your appellations to a nicety. High above the hill a bird floats, riding the upward currents, ever higher until, sated, it turns, dives, is lost to view. So with you, Xeg. No matter, I shall cheer your passing, wearing a spotted carnation, blackly will dance to your doom. Lying on a cloud, sucking grapes and pontefract cakes, I will review your exit, spit pips at your princess, gob on your ideals, perhaps even kiss some of your prettier whores. I'll laugh at your perfectionists, drink to your men of god, who fight so fiercely for the freedom of the world, and throw starving Indians at your Grandes Dames. And if you don't end on Saturday, I shall drop lightly off my cloud, extend my well-worn tongue, and carry on licking your ass. Thirty times a minute, I think you said? Licking your ass and wandering around the world, the proverbial fart in the thunderstorm. To London, wearing the 'in' clothes, mixing with the 'in' set, saying the 'in' things, drinking the 'in' drink—wood alcohol, if I visit the Scrubs. Thence to Rome, to bless the Pope, and on to Madrid, to get intoxicated on bulls' blood, and start shouting Nasty Things about the General. Free again, many years later, on to Zurich and Gnome-tickling, followed by a mercy dash to Poonah, just in time to bring the Mahareshi down to Earth.

What, sir, do you never dream, never wish yourself clear of your fellow animals, never pat your secretary's bottom and tell her to get f—? Shame on you, you're perfect, or, what's worse, well balanced, or, worse still, you haven't got a secretary. Come to wooden, windy, Wellington, worldly wilderness, twelve hours ahead of G.M.T., and six years behind all else. Sink your problems into apathy, join the band of lovers lost, and spill indifferent chemical beer or rank bad wine. Tap me on the shoulder and I'll sell you a handful of fresh-picked fleas, personal recommendations, suitable for the very young. One could, I suppose, go to Viet Nam. but they're having a 'Kill a Christian for Christmas' decade and thought by rights I should be safe, someone may make a ghastly mistake. All very well coming the martyr stunt if you happen to be of the faith, but if you're not then it tends to lose its funny side. Can you image going through all the pain and agony, slogging your way up to the pearly gates, and having Old Pete send you back down for impersonation? And just as you turn away the telephone rings and a booming Voice demands of a shaking Pete, recipient of a million Verbal lashings. "What's that bit of dirt doing dropping its blood on My new gravel drive?" "Well, Master, he's just come from the war, and . . ." "Its no good blaming it on the war. There's always a war. Only thing that keeps Me interested in that hole. Send that thing away and wash My drive." So, Sinner, flee, flee to Wellington, find consolation in those unmercenary arms, happy to snuggle through the night. Throw away your books, gods, cars, beliefs, and return to man's eternal comforter, and if they whisper. "Do you love me?", what does one little lie cost you? Besides, if you say it enough times, to enough of them, why, you might even convince yourself that you mean it, your passport to a broken heart.

Cabman.