of insular habit,
direction?
looking for the same buzz.
Sitting in
wooden paradise corner
of meat sandwiches.
Under
the tall windows
of my
wooden epiphany,
I swore – Fucking!
Top hat
students
talk too
painful for me
of young electric
life.
Drinks are
cold
and halved
quickly,
I read Lorca.
Old sagging
hulks in
greys
buried in the
papers
scalps
pointing
across the
bar.
Bar girls
in orange,
no flutterbys
no more,
are polite
to my shaved head
but keen
to move on.
And the young
screamed,
eager
to perpetuate
their bubble
that rang
vague bells
in me.
Glorious
mission
they have
found
in pub sofas
and in
cigarette
cuffs.
I remembered,
holding
Lorca,
as the light
uncontrollably
angered me
in principal.
I bought
Pound
which
‘no one reads
for pleasure’
and a mist
came down.
I remember
last night
of beef tins
with
stretched handles.
Image;
warm fog
of long walks
damps
peripheries
shining grey.
A mist
of accepted
regret
of spreading
wings
of
happenstance.
Ridden hard
for the only
quest;
for a better
tomorrow
and
kitchen.
Aborted
Texaco corners
lost in the
Liquor Inn,
hard legs
pounding
wrong
streets of
Turk nights
Men there
coffee seated
with phones,
smooth lines
waiting
in silent
attendance.
Monitoring
the ether
from the
garden
furniture
tables.
Walking where
I only saw
before,
under my own
train line
of wine
riding a
curved bridge
past me.
No comments:
Post a Comment