London tweaks me mate, the father I lost to his own escape and the mother
Who found me first. Dribbled as the days come, each building remembered by its use,
Whitechapel and its murders then the garish openings To life you’re
Once dead now made again the overture just begun
Begrimed by time but etched somehow
Somewhere, on a multitude
Of skins. Clustered buildings, hurried people
I feel I know
Like the flock that god forgot
Then found
Then lost
The mumbles still
A skin on skin; of flesh meeting a masonry imagination
Finding bone. Peering out as if you didn’t know
Yourself
Traffic lights entice the wary make this way permanent
But only decision comes. Just this way. No this.
I’m left a summer brown not hoping black
My tongue makes meat of that
Finding home in my own space
Wondering at their sight
We’re left and found and left again
The fingers mark the ace the mirror clouded
By the sex of being home but lost
A man begot now found
Now lost.
All roads come here but find other highway
Step in juju perfect found as if the ancient rite
Will cut to sod
While concrete intervenes
A never hard just earth extended. Found another way.
Spoons and not a fork
Gathering what’s left
Mingling apathy disgust and brighter baubles found.
New York I hurried you.
You ancient polyglot you
Perched on the earth to be begun again
Circumspect as if you knew you
Cleansed from the decision like it never has to be made
For welcomes sake or easy friendly understanding
Renewed by a visitor like an old whore who never finds it more.
And had to see it there. Eclipsed in someone’s eyes.
To be new.
