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
smoking
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 a 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
and
they walked awkwardly away
into the rain and the murk
in LA sunglasses
looking around
kind of suspicious
and
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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