There's a magician in the corner,
and he's showing you his tricks,
while you thumb through old photo-
graphs in a vain attempt to grasp
something meaningful from your past.

That trip to Cornwall, when those
gypsies stole your bodyboard, well at
least it made sense to blame them – at the time.
Foot pierced from beneath, blood along
the sandy beach, a trail to your then
present discomfort.

Back in the jingle-jangle room, the magician has
revealed your card – it was the four of hearts, yeah ?
Artificial applause echoes around you and
the photos, you've creased without
even realising.

Familiar faces shift with expressions,
like Freud in motion, acrylic, synthetic
and somewhat flamboyant people. This room
is where it's at, so you keep telling yourself,
character's from Kerouac laughing at the magician
who's dropped his cards, accidental confetti.

As the smoke thickens, your
grip loosens on what church-folk
call reality and perhaps even, dignity.
You return the photos to the mantel-
piece, amongst plastic teeth, tobacco
and important papers.

As your friend interviews himself
in the mirror, and somebody
licks the inside of a plastic bag,
because he's efficient, after all,
you crane your neck upwards and
hysterically laugh at the crazy patterns
in the ceiling.