When they find his body – The Fat in Black,
forever attired for his own funeral – the man
himself will be long gone. As he always was.
Interred in the second-hand wingback chair
with torn upholstery – decorative Spartans
cutting loose with their xiphoi desperate
to free themselves of this dead weight –
unfinished gin to his left, read and unread
books to the right, headphones skew-whiff,
the brain will have ceased its silent singing
of The Streets of Laredo. The only trace of living
being the salt stains on his shirt.
Brett Evans drinks in his native north Wales. He is co-editor of Prole. Laughing is his favourite thing.