We’ll get Eliot!
To reap the spirits sewn, to capture the degraded modern
and hoist it up like a crucifix, the maimed become pure.
Last time I saw those two reprobates
they were fighting in the captain’s tower of the Titanic.
I believe that calypso singers were laughing at the pair, floppy haired,
squabbling over the last bottle of Brilliantine,
I still don’t know who won the fight to be the creator of the new world.
Fishermen held flowers, I bought one and put it in my lapel, preserved by the ice.
Needless to say we were saved, my connections at Eton
pulled some threads with commander Lightoller’s underwear.
I’ve heard that Ezra is now Charles, the black Tom cat,
fur like he’s brushed against a pylon,
who is a supporter of UKIP and sleeps on a gravestone.
I’ve heard that Eliot, now named Reginald, works as a bloodhound
at Gertrude’s detective agency, fine linen fur
who keeps a pocket watch on his leash,
howls at the beauty of the moon with larynx quarter Yankee,
quarter English gentleman sipping tea from a china cup,
a quarter soothsayer, a quarter thin suffering dog.
He’ll sniff the cat out and restore authenticity.
Yes, we’ll get Eliot.