My heart is inside something. Or around everything or not separated from the shadows.
I see and feel
Too sensitive to feel through the traffic and the
Buzz hum of the
trains rolling over or around the kitchen workers saying
It's Saturday the city Cutlery trays never stop People
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
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
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
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
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...