Insular Spectives, Birth to Death

I suppose I shan't die in Paris on a rainy Thursday afternoon,
leaves left behind and shelved into a drink-soaked trunk or gutter
to have the sanitized cover removed before use, royalties or release;
perhaps to imagine neatly drafting the notes of the music of the words
that will keep the armful soldiers of alphabehomophobic civil guards from violating
an island retreat and heartattacking me in the wake of living confessions
that flee me to the African aridity of junking success;
the protective custody of declared incompetence to unmisplace minds
in a home for the mentally traitorous and crown trust of impersonae;
beyond eighty-year-rust or plus content with running blades of turf
or malcontent flowers of approchement in Venice or Khubla Khan
without apparatchik to say well to quell fevers fervors and sweats;
standing running white fingers through my certainly troubled hair
heated in the crowded aisles of the non-express back from the centre,
I and hire respect will be penniless to take the air-conditioned bus.