Because he hedged himself
He was mist,
An earmarked Jack, blank,
Meddling in the ink-dots
Of a too-finite crown.
To trump the game I began
Assembling an eerie bedrock
With Fleet Street sparrows,
Rusting chokes of alien memories,
Hooey typescripts of whydunit.
Was there a just-exist Howard Hughes?
His lovely-drug unicorn ran its course,
Days of big screen relics.
That gooseflesh deathrattle,
Mugshots blacking out to vapour.
I remember the airbus from Vegas,
Crack troops in shady bulk,
Wheels within wheels
Tampering with fur-eyed ghouls,
His foibles,
Deliriums trembling in waves,
Gaga drivelling through salt flat nights.
They shuffled him,
Dealt him out in blind spots,
Tightened nervous doors,
Skewing overcurious eyes
From the card having fits
To be looked at.
