There is nothing . Only art...

The boy who is nothing sees Lennon’s white plimsolls walk beside the blue sea.

In Subway, alone, he looks down at a rainbow sandwich and brown tea. At the table by the window sits George Clooney. Or is it Cary Grant?  He turns and grins. Oh, brother - it’s George. The boy who is nobody turns away.

Greybeard at the next table looks over: a warm smile, soft, wet lips. White glass beads run down grizzled Ginsberg locks: the Maharishi sips his tea from a paper cup. Beside him, a Devotee sits hunched: middle-aged, silver specs, balding, tiny plait - all there is between inner light and banking; offers a glimpse of Guantanamo orange beneath his sodden parka; lays down his head; fingers beads inside an orange bag. Silent prayers. 

‘Ask me any question you like’.

‘Do you know God?’

There is a black cowled figure behind you.  Ferry across a jet black river. Orange eye of the jaguar behind big green leaves. Rustling, and there is a glistening brown thigh.

‘What lies on the other side?'

‘There is nothing. This is art.'

‘Oh, Jesus.’ Bows his head. Hunches. Rubs his eyes. There is nothing. Only art. And drum and bass on my radio. And do I dare, do I dare: dye my hair ruby red; and click my heels, and think of Ma?