So This Is Hell, Huh. I’ve had enough of that dishwasher shit.
—–
Spoon is cold in his bowler hat -
these days, he wears little else.
Sidling into the club at a quarter to eleven
he reflects the sexuality of jazz,
dancing with Lady Fork – that is, until
Mister Fork arrives with a glare and brass knuckles.
Spoon warms up in the glow of alcohol
the barkeeper knows him well, so after many years of
conversations and tips, he lets him have a few whisky
on the house. Cheers, says Spoon. I’ve never been happier,
and I killed myself today.
