BOWEN, HIS JOURNEY
Bowen the Flea, under Gemini;
under blanket, hides his face from the whips of the Sun.
Everyday he thought of money, his conscience,
between a closed self and this interpretation of the World.
Everynight he lost his dream. And feared the stench.
Bowen, disguised as icy Muscat, out of deep
Arabia, into barroom: the Fly. Sticky-footed
Muscat walks upon Groucho’s ceiling, all ears.
Bowen is who he is; am I. Bowen. Razor, soapcake.
Whiteman looking for ancestor.
Through darkglass, beyond reflection
his own, long, sick face; whey-custard.
watervapour visage, the horned moon
suckles a star. How rare. Night.
How bloody (‘the lachrymose’) cry of insects.
Bowen on the run. Face hidden in hair.
More from Iain Sinclair‘s Suicide Bridge in 3:AM here.
First posted: Saturday, October 5th, 2013.