Faded Elegance

Like Carroll, I try to believe in impossible dreams before breakfast.

Like Wilde, with scotch and soda grin, I hold an empty cup in the universe.

Like Cocteau, I only see junket on a telegraph wire.

Like Proust, I write throwaway lines about seven horns of pure gold. 

Doomsday’s at three to midnight.

Faiths a drink of insecurity. 

I seek her where she is known,

or so the rumours run.