Still summer

December 19, 2011

It was still summer.
The wind blew in construction dust
in a stream of profanity
that fingered my windowsill
in a Japanese subway game of

Upstairs, men with thick fingers
used power machinery
cutting the day into ribbons.

in the holy space between houses,
a squirrel hissed at a cat

the neighbours watched news
instead of Dr Strangelove
on tv sets that filled my room
with mute light
from across the street

Somewhere out of mind
bombs were probably falling,
and one tyrant or other
was on his way
to getting dragged through the streets

there was shit to do
and people to have
but I couldn’t bear it;
the cheap port tasted like sugar
but I poured another three fingers
and closed my eyes

just for a moment


city drug

September 16, 2011

We fly in through clear skies
London opens spills unlocks
endless light strings and
I can’t stop watching
white and yellow lights spread wide like
some giant’s child that
willful and violent, laughs
having spilled the chains of gold
and pearl necklaces
belonging to his rich mother;
from jewelry box to chaos, in one breath or a thousand

One hour later, when I emerge from the underground
a full moon silently burns the three lanes of Warwick Rd
like a searchlight
while cars make their escape in sequence

Suddenly, she comes out
three doorways ahead of me
short skirt raven hair black leather jacket
body so thin
it makes you human again
and her high heels flash
bright red and play a staccato as she walks,
face obscured by darkness

She gets in a car and drives off.

This is the sickness, the City drug, the hunger
that makes you stick around – and I raise a salute
to the moon and the madness
while the corner shop owner frowns
at the young men hanging
outside his door

Ringlets of smoke

June 6, 2011

She said “you’ve changed, I think. maybe
you look older.
No it’s not that.
I don’t know, something.”

She was drinking wine
and i was hitting the tequila hard
trying to confuse
the voices telling me
to stop and breathe

She offered her glass
But I wanted
the anger to blend with the swill
and I lifted the bottle like
men in the movies,
even though I wasn’t one

She smoked and
ringlets of poison
waltzed towards heaven,
only to dissolve.

I drank some more.
Maybe I needed to die a little
but I didn’t think so,
I needed to come alive
a little,
to stomp on some feet or
earn morning trophies

She looked away,
finished her cigarette and got another out.
She looked over to the couple next to us,
the guy passed her a lighter.

Cars drove past. People passed on foot.
We would not part
for another hour

I walked up Regent street stopping
just outside the Burberry store
and watched feet tread the pavement
in a determined march
of the fed and the angry, holding
banners and Canon cameras with
five hundred pound lenses

The young, they wanted their moment,
And storefront windows
were being broken on Piccadilly, while
spray paint philosophy added
gravitas to the walls

Then the police arrived with Their Shields.
Their shields were windows and the men
looked out. Their eyes were square, and
who knows what the law thinks?

I didn’t feel like standing around anymore. I had no beef
with these guys here, or those guys there so
I stepped inside the Burberry store
while some of the people outside
got the truth
they desired
and others probably the truth
they deserved

66 Wardour Street, W1F 0TA

February 15, 2011

Freedom’s open till 3 am.
Then freedom closes.

Freedom opens again, at four or five the next day.
Hours of freedom,
as long as you can afford the drinks at
nine pounds a pop.
The laughter of the free is pearly,
their movement your movement while their longing fills you until you’re bursting with freedom, longing to burn the bridges or fuck in a toilet stall,
to the beat of a girl who kissed a girl

Freedom’s open till 3 am;
then freedom closes
You feel the oppression when
there is no freedom to be had,
and you catch a quick cab for a quick rub and a quick death and a quick goodbye,
coming home to an expired milk carton and
laundry and
email and

And you long for freedom to open, even if it will close at 3 am

Arriving in new York,
a thousand movies
my head in a dance
of Chinese water drops.
The pressure is ecstasy and fear
and my adrenaline mixes with fertile reality in my veins.
For a second I’m alive
and people,
look beautiful.
and I wonder how long
it will last

In the meantime,
women shine at me,
the stoned junkie at two in the morning
isn’t so bothersome and
I get a sloppy hamburger while
twenty four moments a second
cut eternity into shreds and I hand
a hobo a greasy dollar

Next morning, the fat lady ice skating
at Rockerfeller Center at eight in the morning
is charming, somehow.
And the skyline
grins at me
with its teeth of far away lives
and steel and money

I speak to no one as I eat the streets through my feet.
On top of MY game
there is only silence.

Rebellion of one

October 27, 2010

The rain
is suddenly intimate –
Fingers of love
whip my face
with the jealous chains
of the dispossessed

I never promised
to sing or dance, and
I raise my fist
to the skies
in a rebellion of one
on my way to the office

Beware, masters.
I are rising
and we will take your towns
and your daughters
with the sword
of our melancholy

Steps taken

October 16, 2010

There is
a different kind of catharsis
to be found:
the perfect storm
in the smallest teacup and
the delusion
that something has happened, maybe,
at least one step taken?
no step taken
the next day.
when you return
to the Chair and
a smile that does not touch your eyes

the Wellingtons of your dreams
leak with the need of your rent
and the Amex bill and the champagne
you ordered in
a small trendy booth in a bar
with some girl
who ended the night
with a handshake

This is what it comes to

October 12, 2010

This is what it comes to:
train doors open;
life’s cornerstones become:
the Exercise from walking down
the escalator and
the abstract lust for stranger’s faces
still dazed by morning

On the underground
the loud magic of trance music
from a librarian’s earphones
garrotes your laughter

The minutes of wasted life
have fallen slipped through
The hole in my pocket
into the lining of my coat
to join my change

I am not vain enough to say
that beggars or fools
are richer than me,
It is only my envy
that has no boundaries or shame
and I will cane it
with the sound
of other people’s
telephone conversations
in the communal cell
of an open plan office

Meet me: Pt. 3

October 10, 2010

Meet me
In the apartment on X street,
where we used to watch
grainy reruns of Dallas,
and talk of Deleuze
and get drunk
on the weekends

I’ve still got a key
and I hear that it’s empty.
There are still weekends
and there’s cheap vodka,
but they’ve stopped
the Dallas reruns
and the philosophy reading

I will sneak in and wait,
so that my breath and my steps
can echo sharply
between the walls

when the empty room
is warm
from our bodies,
You can tell me
about your daughter
and I’ll say that
your eyes
look three times as tired,
as they did
when we met
by chance at the station

On timing

September 22, 2010

If you time it right
And open yourself
As a window opens
Or maybe a gate
You can walk
Without stopping
Through the whole of London
If you time it right
And the city allows you

If you open yourself
Like car door opens
Or an angry mouth
You can stop
At every street light
in Moscow
When it’s lost in haze
and people
meet your eye
only to determine
that you are a stranger

Invitation to a bistro

September 16, 2010

Meet me again
Under red lights
In city full of gas
Do not breathe in at all
Until we shake hands
And walk
To a noisy bistro

Our broken conversation
Means nothing if
a waiter doesn’t interrupt
At least three times
In quiet testament
To our joint want
to find the other side
of every coin
Before the dealer lifts the cup

who undresses who?
I you with eyes
You me with hands
Later, When cars again
Shroud us in gas
We can discuss this

The queue

September 10, 2010

Queue and its busy too
Mid day city strangers frown
Nobody meets eyes
Square chin blonde full package
Wants food now
Is made to wait
Time flies hair flicking
Hair flicking
Hair flicking
Thank you immigrant server
And as he turns
Hatred on her face
Who wastes the time
of beautiful women?

And so on

September 1, 2010

Not a good day
Today to feel
alone in city
People faceless mute
Manikins move antlike
Everyman stand up
for himself herself suck
soul into cellphone
Better day tomorrow
Alone in city
Full of possibility
And the day after
Full of possibility
And so on and so on
Full of possibility