I'll do a Reginald Perrin, leave red herring threads at Sherring-
ham, then dice-rolled palookaville of new self I shall explore.
When Palookas call me Neville, they won't see this wasted rebel,
But numpty Neville, on the level, who misplaced some wasted days of yore.
Amnesiac clerk so stoical over mist-shrouded days of yore.
Only knew his name was Neville Moore.

Nev'll moonlight at night-school, pick up a trade most practical,
In minimalist digs post-dossing on an unforeseen saviour's floor.
As Time's sandstorm obscures lyrics, John Doe-penned hieroglyphics
- lost soul Lysander's from Norwich, his mind shut like a shoved closed drawer
To Poesy's Pandora's box of bollocks in an indigo iron drawer
In Norwich. No bones to Neville Moore.

Neville will be a straight arrow, nice chap whose mind is narrow,
Tepid tryer temping at call-centre, lockjaw forevermore.
The blandest of mystery men, what was Neville's name again?
Memoryless man blends in, my dead ringer stunky and strong-jawed.
Eye-witness testimony of 36 years will gladly be abjured
- done myself good deed poll: Mr. Neville Moore.

I'll abscond, leftover Lysander will be eternal loose end, the
Inner poltergeist confined to an indigo iron drawer.
Tomorrow I'll do a John Stonehouse bog-snorkelling, a grandiose 
Loser who fled his rut injurious, a selfinflicted bore.
Abandon HMS Ego, a ship for one fool, then life will be less of a bore
Being much more boring Neville Moore.

Shall I meet a girl called Sybil, Palookashire our idyll?
Where a man with no past can just wash up upon the shore.
If the child is father of the man, may Neville be most upbeat orphan
- labels torn off clothes from Oxfam that Memory's Outlaw wore.
Newfoundhometownbound Mr. X such clueless clothes he wore,
Clean the pockets of Neville Moore.

Sybil won't be  type to probe, at night she'll pop her Zopiclone,
Cuddle up to normal Neville, earnest the embrace of average amour.
We will rent a little bedsit, expend a lot of effort
To make our place seem white-picket-fenced, situated on 3rd floor.
Downer updraughts to no faceplants from lovenest 3rd floor
tempt plain ol' sane ol' Neville Moore.

No temptation, but something racing, the unexplained midnight pacing,
And murmurs in Nev's sleep there's reams in an indigo iron drawer.
But in daylight we'll have daughter, from nowhere the name 'Cobania'
 - Nev wouldn't dig Nirvana, fin de siecle scream's an aural chore.
No, not for Neville such nihilistening, in ludic zen of household chores
shrug the numb lugs of Neville Moore.

Neville wouldn't get promotion, Neville doesn't have much gumption.
Homo domesticus humdrum by design, Nev's a swollen snore.
Lice would have mocked, 'Call this living?' Lice is dead, would always give in
To windmills' wheeling withering, watched like a raven, set no store
In what life we have worth living, which is what life life has in store
For free, questionfree Neville Moore.

Neville, don't be snarling slave to totes snafu a former self made,
Be complete now the only piece is the missing piece of the jigsaw.
Radio receives no 'roger', they won't see Cobania as a toddler,
But for famalam, there's succour: the lines left in indigo iron drawer.
For Lice did leave literally living will in that indigo iron drawer:
Poem entitled Neville Moore.

Sybil and Nev have their ups and downs, cracks in facades too oft' gouge frowns.
Castaway's fury in his eyes curdles Florida coleslaw.
Nev didn't need Sybil's mithering, or was it Lice thinking about writing
(did we do Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', too nuts too soon in Neville Moore?)
Polter-Lice rattling in indigo iron liar's den means no more 
Neville Moore.

O sweet phantom Cobania, I hope she ends up saner
Than her Canoe Man old man, who's wobbling from subconscious southpaw
Of split personality punch-ups, one-man-band fight clubs,
punchdrunk on bad self burps, tho' Nev burped Cobania with awe.
Pneumatically patting doting dad soon to be errant, overawed
By humdrum Heaven, Neville Moore's.

Witness protection program to hide me from self-hate's hitman,
But as Miltonic Satan's heart held Hell, the killer within is law
Unto himself. Fagend 'fore Year Zero caught up with my alter ego's
one trick phoenix photo album, one soul's civil war.
Greener grass of everyman Eden scorched, sacked by selves at war,
Lice negging out Neville Moore.

Can't see the dream, it's ultraviolet! Anonymous lifeboat sailed down the toilet.
Sybil wagging her finger with thrust of a fishwife's wappenshaw.
Cobania's cantankerous tween, Nev hears fin de siecle scream
at U-bending incognito dream as it's entombed 'low a sycamore.
Man from nowhere nowhere now under a suicide's sycamore.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Beneath me to quote Ocean Colour Scene, beneath a sycamore willow-leaned,
But day I caught train derailed, my malaise of glory took a detour.
Cobania in black with punky highlights grieves strange dad on the quiet,
Sybil's indignant it was senseless existential eyesore
Option all her lost-and-found, found-and-lost, haunted hubbie saw.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Nev won't see Cobania grow up: she never existed - s' good job!   
Yet I'll miss driving lessons and wedding, even if shaggy dog's dewclaw
which scratched itself out, vestigial scythe. Neville was never alive,
just mask recast from a smelted indigo iron drawer.
Vista from my 2.0's cenotaph is dark as in a drawer
Now quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

After Poe's numerical misnomer - one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encoding birthday of old dud cub who overroared
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID. But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
When two as one expire same sigh of relief filling sallow sycamore.
Phew! Lice, he is no more.