A dark Soho street or wherever there’s some red light Basement drinking wine bars with charming waiters Conversation and red blood flowing in the town’s Ghost rivers that drown below the pavements but really I mean the moonlight and the yellow street lamps and You taking me to a place telling me what wines to buy Sometimes I just want to be a girl a woman like the way They said like romance and broken hearts unwanted Pregnancies I just want your voice in my ears and you In front of me in your subtle way and smelling the wine That has been in your mouth and looking up and down
A harsh reality that unfolds like out of a song the wine Dragging us away into some den of iniquity by which We mean a side street with the lights out and the tall Men in the street with their air of knives feeding drunk Me for which you will be required to pay because I’m your lady and knives and later we walk through Endless bunker corridors of a block of flats of rooms In this safety on this rough blue carpet in your sweet bed The look in your eyes you understood what’s in me You saw me and liked me you knew me and gave me up For shame and that’s all there is it is now ended and I’m not alone but I’m not with you and I want you Sometimes but otherwise it’s just more of the same
I’m drowning or floating badly beneath the water swim shoals depression booze seratonin screens above the water like an iceberg the booze also looms promising sanctuary when my fingers touch the cold island they freeze to it then slip and burn as I plunge back below
The orange or red rising thru blue night And how it chases dreams away from Tired eyes you can’t see how it wakes In you when you don’t want to raise your Head from a pillow or low shoulders These birds with their necessary beauty Like a carefully chosen alarm ringtone But better and how the night lights of Your room dim in the coming day the Wifi box once so bright or broken party Fake candles or candles or lava lamps How a morning saliva gathers in your Mouth like the sun is meat like the day Is flesh and how eyes ache to behold Such wonders after a whole world of Day and night gone by yes under the Right circumstances dawn feels like You’ve lived too long and refuse to stop.
The morning bird: Singing into the fog of early dew, cutting the dull Dank clouds with velvet wings, sharp as knives. I watch her between the long, easy breaths of branches And their leafy veils, following her flight through A tunnel of clear dry air until all begins to soak With mourning tears whilst the fields and woodland Stir, and somewhere I catch her mounted by a fairy, Driven down underneath the roots to elven kingdoms.
I drop into my puddle of lost veils: here below, Where the leaves are sweet with fire colours. They stare out from their spines. They crackle Like rotted twigs in the wind, or tiny bones.
I don’t have a clear picture today. There’s a lino kitchen floor like beige wood. It feels as though the window is open but it’s the fridge, vapour pouring out like in the movies going to see the man who makes eyes. I curl up inside. I am on the lino floor, legs splayed like a funnel. Something is pouring into me. My shoulders rest on the kitchen drawers, my arms lazily reach out for booze that isn’t there. Somewhere in the room things have spilled. I hear rollerbladers outside. I see an evening near Christmas; looking up at the Moon, I imagine making a window box with her as she tells me I will never make a window box with her. The flowers become orchids and die. The dull thud of thick glass knocking on my head, the dull thud of golden liquids, the dull thud of red wine bleeding makes rhythms across the scene, permeating the cold monochrome and beige, my splayed body thuds. Maybe I let it out in a sonorific, a grating, a breadknife to saw it. This is the place I go to when I do not want to understand.
First there was a grey room and colour of midnight And the same beer he would drink for the next nine years With different stickers – I never heard him complain – I liked him immediately this spectator reading his books It was apparent there were lots of conversations we’d never have So there I was cleaning the dishes which he must’ve understood The blue sky rolling over London in that bland tall way A bath of air a soap in the mouth It was inevitable that he would be the Leader which was good I remarked on it He fights like a mad soldier on an island With real passion with zeal This plan he has – this coming to fruition as inevitable as the trees – A fateful man like this Unshaken by trenches he was a poet also That when this heart was broken further I knew – plate and magma – Someone who pulses like the world is to be trusted or at least enjoyed Of course speaks of absolute laws adrift thru whirlpools and spires We dropped bombs on Kings Cross in our youth – a time passed – Now he is to me an Atlas and bears the weight of great friends Legends spoke around the hall as cups clash where heroes meet Not quite as he imagined and yet the plan is enacted.
Off-blue wall light and standing lamps that don’t stand A single magazine on the table advertising crochet The abyssal antechamber hangs off an endless The kind of corridor you find in pyramids Or don’t find We waited for nothing and then someone came To announce it was ready and read about crochet Instruments could not play or work A wide room, a single flower pot and hotel bedsheets I walked over to his vacancy The stillness does not end so I walk to the soft head I kiss his blue lips that are blue like strange lipstick I push my tongue into his cold mouth His beard has not grown back to tickle my nose He is dead and we all seem to know So we leave the flesh on the bones to rot a little Before the flames The pyramid makers did not understand.
Those movements in shimmer and
Flicker and the glow like plot rolled
Into actor and spread across the eye
Shut eyes too tired to turn away or
While blinking scorch a hole through
This play this life this appreciation
Of light too bold in its purpose but
It’s warm still warm in the dark feel
Light that you cannot see hear light
And the burning be a part of some
Madness or illumination there is a
Fear of the dark not unwelcoming but
Invisible the base fear of unknown
And this is how some stare at the sun
Into blindness to try and see beauty
Makes a mess of my soul’s
Bedroom all littered with bottles
And half-filled condoms bleeding out
Lying on the stained carpet this heart
Crying or staring at the ceiling wide
Empty sight of understanding
Mortality does strange things to a mind
And acceptance the slow process of
Cleaning the room and the sound of glass
Smashing glass in the bin the cold
Or encrusted feel of these
Some industrial carpet cleaner
And a comfortable night’s sleep before
The shops open again