Jules Pascin

So this is death
to rise to the occasion
a shadow
to a shadowy persuasion

Pascin has passed
with his affectionate swagger
his air
of the Crown in the role of jester.

The side-long derby-slanted Bulgar
cocked his jet eye
in its immaculate leer,
and as a coin,
tossed his destiny

Once a shy ivory boy,
the colour of life
had deepened on his cheek
in a wry irony

Pascin has ceased
to flush with ineffaceable bruises
his innubile Circes

Ceased to dangle
demi-rep angels
in tinsel bordels

Silence bleeds
from his slashed wrists
dim homunculus
within
cries for the unbirth

The seeds
of his sly spirit
are cast to posterity
in satyric squander

a pigeon-toed populace
whose changeling women
jostle the prodigal son
as swine
Cinderallas awander.