The Napoli. Gangsters in baggy suits, the Confirmation boys feed tanners to the juke-box. Love me tender.

Rock a hula baby. Only for me the whole town'd be gone. That's the pocket done for. The sleeve should keep me going until they find me; dogs, lights, megaphones screaming through the dark. Let them come. I am ready. Let them drag me by the hair, rip my flesh to pieces. True poets are born to die.... While I'm waiting, I might as well be thinking. List, in alphabetical order, ten things that must be suffered by the poet.

Absence. From a Daddy who died for Ireland.

B is for... Banality. A good one. Banality.

Compulsory Purchase Orders.

Destruction. Of the landmarks of youth, the lifeblood of art.

Evenings. Staring at the four walls.

Friends. Lack of.

G... I'll think of something later.

Home. H is for Home

I... Invisible? No. In... Inability. That's it. Inability to procure a regular supply of

Crested Ten.

JCB.

`If you ask me he was always a bit of a bollocks. Poncing around with that nancyboy bag, spouting about poems and the trans... the whatthefuckdidhecallit?`

`The transsomething power of words.`

`The power of words me arse. When did poems ever buy a pint?`

`Or pick the winner of the 3.30 at Lincoln. Meself and the lads'd be waiting for the results and we'd watch him through the window. Sticking up poems, handing out them bits of paper. One word on every page. You could hear him roaring on the Curragh. Come together, people of the Midlands, unriddle the spinks of life! Throw away the baubles of banality! I ask you, what sort of carry-on is that? Bawling about fucking bananas. In broad daylight?`

`And what about the banger?`

`The Kingmobile? Sure he drove that into a ditch years ago. Going home one night in the horrors.`

`He was as bad in school. Remember how he used to go on about Elvis? The Bard of Memphis. The greatest living poet. Stop the lights!` continue