Watching the detectives

A disembodied sheet     hanged by the numbers, stirs
"who's been messing around with my mother's photograph?"
I have dreams of you, Josef K, tonight
rows of lamps illuminate the summonses
"I've got a physical defect"    their clutches
    a dwarf of the profession     her drawers
love in the stacks reality dissimulation
and waiting    a sewing machine     not bourbon
"I'm her husband. It's Sat-ur-day night."

He cleans the toilets     digs berries
in the basement bathrooms of our institutions
where the rumours grew tumours and were merry
gauntlets of latex     grails & ablutions
there is no spot that does not see you, including my dinghole
now winter crumpeth.    "I am not your son"
the universe tics    hey apathy profiterole
"scrub? it's not surgery, it's dissection"

Hustled out the cathedral     flowers gone
   one on each arm    (to the suburbs) & shot him