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CORPUS CHRISTI: O.H.M.S.
Market Place: across from the piled fruit a queue of non-conforming orators chant in emphatic broad East-Anglian the pay-off of Christ's death. He died. Tomatoes, peaches, radishes. That we. New potatoes, Cox's orange pippins. May live forever. A slick pickerel gliding between a babel of map-porers, camera-cockers, Kit Marlowe bicycles. Look, no hands, short shorts, shaved legs. His gold helmet lettered : Ecce Ho- mo. A licensed goof-off, pseudo recusant, apple-faced naughty-boy, down to no good. Unpaid buttery bills but coin in his pocket to finance his portrait, oil on board, toffed up in pricey duds. But where to now, knee-steering down Sydney Street? The Kremlin's collapsed; the CIA, compromised. Now, show-biz rules. The sale of indulgences. Celebrity, rouged coney-catcher, wild card pouched in a sequined G-string, opens his bosom. Oranges and lemons, suck'em and see. We feed from his bleeding heart. So bonk yourself blind, buddy, wheeling and dealing in Mephisto's disco. Here's a spike in your agate eye.
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