A ghost walks along the river
past the neon jewellery door
(blue and pulsating – bright rings
of papal girth) a magpie caw
comes from the counter – or a Jay?
Mother of pearl eyes. It’s his place.
The history of jewels in res,
he fluffs himself behind the caisse.
The pyramids of glass have dust
crusted to the linings – coaches
of ghosts queue around it in lines
he senses weakness, and poaches
coins from the spectral flaneurs.
The flagstones are split – in one slip
Machiavelli dropped a coin –
yellow – it has rested there since.
Now when we pass over that crack
we feel the urge to betray all
our friends to attain power – that
is all that echoes in our halls.
Machiavelli – in constant
rotation in his grave (his bones
hitting the stone in a cut beat
that sounds like house music) unthroned.
Absolute|Unrest 