OUR

Work

City Home

October 11, 2019

My heart is inside something. Or around everything or not separated from the shadows.

 

I see and feel

 

fingertips

 

Too sensitive to feel through the traffic and the

 

Buzz hum of the

 

trains rolling over or around the kitchen workers saying

 

"OW"   "OW!!!"

 

It's Saturday the city Cutlery trays never stop People

 

Need entertainments

 

Gush Gush crash crash Sick Gush

 

Lying across a torn sheet

 

Was I sticky in the forth floor of a building

 

City trucks escalator of waves

 

Roll by this cellar room

 

Why would I write on command?

 

i came here to forget about not knowing where you are but

 

then you messaged me this morning After I was so furious scared you might be dead or Smacked Up on the streets

 

don't know which part of London

 

Did you meet a girl? why not I met a man he was texting after me

 

i told him that I’m  OUT OT TOWN

 

You can lie in the city it's

 

easy

 

The city’s so big

 

You can lie to avoid a man you like even though he was promising and you shared the

 

night out playing guitars in the Bars his mate fancied you he was strange he cut you

 

off but you were so rude to him

 

It felt he was probing you down the Camden Parkway he was asking you about

alcohol

 

a past

 

He confessed his past too quickly for comfort that he hasn't had a girlfriend in fifteen years because

 

his sweetheart was mad, heartless, a psychopath now can he take you out?

 

Home is the place where you

 

dance with my pink fluffy bag and you laugh at me

 

take me in your arms

 

lead me to the bar,

 

make me pay

 

spin me round,

 

Walk real fast

 

We meet on a boat on the Thames

 

the water is Shocking

 

So high as the sea I see

 

Slices of grey thick

 

waves slosh against the windows

 

Under the Vauxhall Haul of Lumbar bones

 

Fucking aching boats

 

You lumbering your heavy trolley with your amplifier

 

Amplifying my voice

 

Jesus SHUT ME UP Darling

 

Make me stop Make me stop

 

Jesus poets are precocious No wonder Sylvia Got it in the head

 

And Burroughs with his magic pen did over his

 

girlfriend / with a gun / no breaks

 

Where’s the breaks on this thing?

 

Home is where the premonitions have stopped

 

and you wake me up

 

"Thank You!"

 

Where avocado and butterflies lampshades and flapper girls meet in the crevice in my

torn bed at two thirty a.m.

 

I awoke last night and got up.

 

The city is quieter at night sometimes I walk the streets to the All night MacDonalds

 

on Kensington High Street

 

You always meet somebody you might save them, they might save you, they might propose and follow you home you might

 

take in an old lady you might try to get her papers to stay in the country, you might

put her in your own bedroom.

 

Home is the place whereall of this is okay

 

where it is brilliant where reserve and criticism and disgust are blasted out of the equation

 

and coldness has had its day and Red Teapots Shine

 

And warmth and error beats sensitivity as sensitivity becomes an Attribute and not a 

dis ease.

 

Home is letting go a joke a pick me up

 

A fold me down

 

An astral aimless austin \Martin where YOU fix up the radio and WE coastthrough dreams and as many girls or animals or children or lovers or hangers on can put themselves

 

up on the roof.

 

Even my father drove us through Italy so many times...

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©2017 by The New Machine (Creative Writing), United Kingdom

Text: 07534 981 636

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