the
estate
closed around us
like a fist with the night
our wine in carriers
clinking
like
warning bells
the
street empty as curfew
boarded-up boozer
singing / screaming echoing inside
made up
our
minds
cutting short a nervous street piss
we backtracked carefully
texting
GOT LOST / BAILING / APOLOGIES
eyes
on
the train line above us
the distant towers of town
and
on
our
6
from theguardian.com
gone friends
live
on
in
the dream time
as
long ago faces
haunting
long ago bars
and
they swim up out of the fog
still
young
as real as
anything
on my tv - like a re-run
ignorant
of
the
long years
its
like
they never been gone
and all day
i will wonder where they are
and all day
i will picture them knocking on my door
fat
with
a
shared past / forgiveness
apologies / good news
and
dreams
of
me
from mediamolecule.com
all
the
good
old
school
poets
wrote letters
i read about it in forwards
and
saw big hardbacks
of
collected
correspondences
from
mexico and salt marsh
from
forbidden territories and the tree house
they
knew
each
others
appetites - shared their missions
ideas
tempers
beds
and
lives - filing eyes-only reports from private wastelands
and
barking
moods
from
their
beards
the electric age
has made correspondence easier
but
reduced
our souls
to
shouting soundbites
so to good poets out there - apologies
for
my
scant sharing
of ideas
mission
and
temper
but
my
mission
is
a small one and cloudy
and
my
empathy strained
