Looks Like Luxury And Feels Like a Disease Poem by Andrew Duncan

He begs for a large view, he begs for needles.
He begs for a faceless coin, he begs for the heel of a loaf.

He begs not to be looked at. He begs
For a bag of mixed sweets, for wooden joints starting. He begs
For a holding of singles in shoeboxes, and for an Amstrad word
processor with a ZX81 chip.

He begs for a shirt from Camden Lock Market and a pair of old shoes.
He applies for countenance, aficionados and copycats.

He begs for a bag of apples and a bag of onions.
For a bus ticket to High Barnet and to win arguments.

He forages without shame.
Who now is our cause of laughter, who
Is faint when the bill arrives?
Who eats his own leavings?

He begs for milk and tea, or for fine yellow linen.
He begs for the scrapings of the pan,
And for a long yards of red beer.

He solicits for the accord of prestige,
He begs for a shirt, and the holes in it.
He desires greasy victuals. He indents for
Formulae of release on sheets of lead.

He begs for silver foil as snug ticking.
He begs for a door-post when he sees it.
He picks more than he leaves.
He wants an ear for what knowledge he has.

He begs for place spiritual and temporal.
He begs a button for his coat.
He begs to be sick when he is well.
He begs for butter on hot lentils some times around.

He begs for an overcoat frayed at the cuff,
And for tears at the pockets and at the hem.
He begs for a passage of water looped
Under many tall blackthorn bushes.

He begs for a setting at the board, and to be privy to counsels.
He begs for expertise, and for a pleasing eagerness.
He likes his facts soft, his
Several sorts of data set out in one picture.

He wishes something for being nothing.
He tenders blank looks and the hollow of his hand.

Money for jam. Just the facts ma'am. Start me up. Pummel my lights,
unfuddle my wits. A middle term plan. I'll be your man.
Two hands and a tongue. Fealty for sweets. More than a tease and less
Than a sneeze. Eight slices of brown bread. Many penny benefit.
Dosser stipendiary. Largesse of nobility. Decentred penalty.

Laid off solidary, don't take on so. Feet on the loose, heads
On the block. It's a big break, splurge these takings.
Self image no feature. Headstrong avenger.
Scavengeable loser. Illiquid vanguard.
Licenced for languor. What makes today's homes
So modern? the purely ornamental people.
No, Sophia, we must wait for the sea to refill.
Cavitation bubble. Stuck to the pan. Pits in the metal.

Qualms at the till. No! to the frill. Part of your charm.
No-hope on a rope. Sloven up in arms.
Slip-ups from the trickledown. The say-sos of the so-said.
Slash to the bone. Stop at home. Artless Goth that nobody owns.
The counter staff sluice you through and out like droppings.
Get your intellectuals here, eight ounces a year. Cleaning
Duties included. Blank in a sweepstake, straw in a haystack.
Hay for wire and gorse for winter. No gain,
No pain. Great feckless Midlands lump.
Mouse soup in Flesh Hovel Lane. Pauper's traps, de beaux draps.
Put on your good clothes and write a poem. Gather fuel for an electric kettle.

Crusty old thing. Nowt for tat but lenience at that. A small fortune,
Chastity and thrift. Ditchwater on draught.
At the curt beck of the celestials we raise the Castle of Indolence.

In the Rawheel Café, where the claimants become clients,
The grate of the chicory in the coffee,
The thickness of the waitress's Kurdish accent,
Surpassed the merely generous and comforting.
Talk was cheap and geniality filled the stomach.