January 12, 2015 § Leave a comment
The elephant never sleeps.
It rains, and I like it.
New buildings putting up now, more, slick
Sellers and their wares,
I eye them.
Never took you through these painted tunnels.
The yellow flashes, the gold orange, red tail lights, off the wet.
Cyclists, I regard you brave.
East Street must be packed up by now
Where’s that whistle come from?
My friend, we exchange, he confesses probable cowardice.
The butcher’s still open, pink hanging things. I regret the inhale.
Open-fronted shops to fix your phone, fix your hair.
The rain I guess and the dark had me fooled they would all be home.
It’s better out
Wet here, to your warm.
The buses splash waves crash half the pavement.
In the window: a constellation of small pageboys and bridesmaids, but decked in red, in purple.
It is easier to see outside, moving.
I wonder dully how much it will be in resoling my shoes.
I like the way they look out,
Still in this city. In barbershops, sitting out, in grocers, butchers, standing cross-armed and at ease, looking out.
Hard wet snapping heels are mine.
£1 for a massage from a large black chair,
Escort and massage scrawled with a number, at the lights, as I wait to cross the road. Stuck up on the pole, there.
Smells of vinegar.
Thom Yorke under my hood: oh my god oh my god, oh my god
I should put another album on my phone.
Ears and eyes smashed after a day of received ideas. One class, they admit at least the difficulty of saying anything.
I exhaust myself,