…and without a shadow,
or a ghost of a conscience to speak of.
He strikes an England’s Glory matchstick
across a [NO SMOKING] sign,
with a theatrical flair, and arrogance…
which sensitive folk can taste upon the air
for a good, full mile radius.
He cups, tattooed-knuckled hands,
beneath the rim of a Herbert Johnson’s
(Nunquam Non Paratus)
grave-dark, razor-sharp trilby,
courtesy of New Bond Street, London,
setting light to a Lebanese Black laced,
expertly crafted, Old Holborn roll-up.
He exhales a loose skull & crossbones,
and smirks, in a complicated manner…
then, whistling Smetana’s ‘The Moldau,’
as the night-time rain visually electrifies
the outline of his swaggering aura,
he sets off, at an ambling-gait…
in your general direction.
Why? Well, the word on the cobbles
is that he’s bought your ‘Karmic Debt,’
and the ‘Cashing-In’ of such a matter
always promises to be an Alchemic mix
of the Sublime and Psycho/Fantastical.