Monday, July 11, 2011



A guy with the first name “Sir” is shot to death: Balfour.
An inspector inspects him.
Let us jolly well go to Scotland Yard!
And think about this.
Billy the Butler might have done it.
As might perhaps Sir Jimmy.
Or Call-Me-Mr. Hibbs.
But that doesn’t explain the suicide note!
Nothing explains a suicide note!
You might as well ask a donkey to read Kierkegaard.


Five years later, with scattered pages and hoof prints on the floor, little eithers and ors.
Dead Sir Suicide Note’s estate is occupied, like Ovaltine occupies a tall, cool glass: Balfour
Ovaltine is delicious. Some more!


Beaver Skin Cap man now lives at Dead Sir’s and
He has the requisite beaver-skin cap.
He has the large fangy fangs.
He has the gruesome, sunken eyes.
His assistant is a ghost with breasts.
She has flowing robes.
She has raven black hair.
Could this be Balfour
who opens the door
like a n’er do well n’er more
eating ghostly s’mores?
I think that ...

But this movie has disappeared. Nobody knows where it is. In 1965 I drew pictures of it. I drew big dark circles under Lon Chaney’s eyes even. I probably saw it on TV. It was called LONDON AFTER MIDNIGHT. And in 1967 it disappeared. It would have been nice to steal it in 1965 and save it so that now everybody could watch it again. But how would I have known what was going to happen? I was ten years old. Disappearing is the worst thing in the world. Goodbye, London After Midnight.

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