In Search of the Man-Mist

I woke up today with an ache
in my hunting tooth. Despite
the springy hotel mattress,
my back cricked
like a viewmaster wheel, clicking
picture to picture.

Breakfast was delicious, I think.
More fuel than feast, though.
I strapped on the shoes
least likely to impede a chase,
then encased them in steel overboots,
before waltzing briefly
with the revolving door.

The sun is fierce in New Orleans,
nigh-on embracing the Equator.
The dialling code 504
could easily be the temperature.
Not that I have to fret too much
about sunburn. Bone can't frazzle
like skin. I slapped
a token blot of Factor Ten
on my face, my only chink,

and went in search
of the one who did this,
who gave me blades
in place of blushes.

A loose thread
of green smoke
is all I need to find
Feu-Fo-Lay. I know
his scent; it's been lodged
in my nostrils from that day
to this. Just give me that
sliver of mist.

I keep jumping at the clouds
writhing from cigarettes,
keep telling myself
that this
is a mission for those people
lying, mutilated and stained
in hospital beds,
their doctors mystified.
Keep ennobling my cause
like a hero should,
but the mask slips
when I brush my spines
and realise
his ass is mine.