Famous people live their fame, its upside
a Marlowe manuscript discovered
tucked behind the inglenook, the downside
a school trip to the abattoir.
His autobiography an A-Z of rehab
and underage escorts, his management
assured him—the kiss-and-tell no worries, everything
after all, just content.
Then, no interviews for a year, no
leading roles or fashion launch, only
promotionals for pet food, double glazing
or equity release—girlfriends
with tagalong careers, at least one
married under TV lights, decamped, their nose
for lost causes a bloodhound’s, a future
in retail in Slough
or airport taxi rank, the iceberg and Titanic—
no thanks.
Found wandering the streets, someone
recognised the lightning scar, the trademark hair
dishevelled but still rakish: the child star
with a paunch and hangover
five years in rehearsal.
The papers called his management,
and the management said, ‘Who?’
The book he wrote—himself, with
no one this time ghosting at his shoulder, a trade off
for the life he broke—was less than kind,
and the footnotes had lawyers
circling for months.
The people he knew, knew people
people should know better than to know:
where the money went, the stash
of child porn glossies and the video.
The injunction upheld, he shrugged:
the edition here affected, yes, its sale
and distribution, but no-holds-barred in Tangier
or Trieste—orders there
in thousands.
No hacker’s paradise
of cut-and-run—he doubled down old school:
no laptop or phone, the pages
handwritten, and everything
in cash.
He rides a bike to the beach hut
from the sleepy town each day. Beyond there, the world alight
with news of longhand reams
his management received, postmarked
Cedar Key—across the envelope the scrawl,
Buckle up... a draft of Volume Two.
Estill Pollock | The Fires
Contents | Mudlark No. 74 (2023)