‘I am a non-visceral realist’ he said, ‘the sort of anti-Dadaist that makes a mockery out of disorder and dissonance’. ‘I prefer my reality coloured with moods, a viral infectiousness that creates its own incontinence’. He lit another cigarette, a pale-brown Cuban cheroot, tittered like a circus fat-lady and said, ‘such grand thoughts, yet no end to your banter and caterwauling’. The ash from his cheroot fell into the fob of his lap, a whoopee caroming from the manse of his jawbone. ‘All this dilettantism and jumpiness, such a shame, and me without a poet for a piggyback’ he said smirking. He died penniless down the hole, a visceral-realist humping him face-down into the cold Dantean ice.
