Wednesday, 26 April 2017


met a woman
100 years ago it seems
who knew buckowski
way back
in the 20th centurys 
paperback analogue

she wore huge LA sunglasses
in the murky raining london night

i heard her read
her husband too
his prose 
was production line
hers at least
had neon and light

i was on the wagon
the booze fumes inside
a jag on my nerves
i was outside often
on the triangle wedge there 
worn wooden benches
knee high ashtrays

the traffic divided at my feet
like i was a rock in the tide

she was drunk
when she left
with her daughter
her daughters smile
if it was her daughter
was eight miles wide 
her husband
was tall dry bough 
jesus i thought
dead man walking

i spoke out to them
something about
their poetry reading
some complimentary something
that i dragged out
for the occasion

i was stood in the rain
potted plants empty glass
kerb stone apex
cutting londons flow
like the bow 
of a great concrete liner

their replies were mumbled
uncertain and drunk

they were caught up 
in their daughters 
headlong wake
they walked awkwardly away
into the rain and the murk
in LA sunglasses
looking around
kind of suspicious
blind as moles

well screw you too i thought
i met kerouac anyway
down in the stairwell
of a brixton church
we shared a herbal smoke
so there

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