1 DECEMBER 1990, Page 49

Visiting the Master

If no one calls, I'm glad; and, if they do, Narked that they blunt the edge of my loneliness, Of my watching the flowers wilt and the slow wind strew Untrodden pathways red. What politesse, What Zen-refinements you had looked to find To reward your soul for its slog to this awful place.

Well, you got it wrong. My hundred-flowered mind Blooms for itself behind this fuck-off face.