A cloudburst loomed over the Worthing seaside,
and he puffed curls of blue smoke
from his Parascho cigarette to the leaden sky.
Snazzy and just arrived from London,
jolly like a maypole. He clocked himself hearing
his own name—ghostly—from the pier:
Oscar! Oscar!
He believed himself seeing Ganymede
conjured up by the scented smoke.
The most beautiful effete ever, cupbearer of Gods.
A breeze of lust wafted through the green carnation
glowing on his lapel.
Though it was not his name that resonated
all over the sea, but the wind soughing
through a seagull's skeleton.
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