midnight in manhattan

the rush, the roar
the space, the time
the jolt, the fire...
half stolen lines.

the heat, the sweat
the buzz, the lights
the storms, the rain...
manhattan nights.

the draw, the pull
the lift, the weight
the steel, the awe...
night fire escapes

the drunks, the drugs
the poor, the dead
the dreams, the dust...
all that's left.

"...like a river that don't know where it's flowing"

it was drunk and i was dark
brainwashed and rainwashed
and stuck in the past
on a cracked east london street
beside myself and seeing double
stumbling on sodden feet
as a storm came crashing down
as a nightbus rushed right by
as a couple kissed against the wall
beneath the bridge ahead
a headache coming on
but each swig sweet relief
as tattered shoes smacked battered ground
swerving but unswerved
nervous but unnerved
just following the footsteps
of springsteen's hungry heart
and its fatalistic future
step by step by step
by step by...

(un)familiar

so weird to see you now,
how - now - you balance your mouth
like a waitress with a tray of drinks
about to fall and spill them all
and maybe break a glass or two and
cut a jagged line across her skin.

but you, you keep your blood in
and your heart and teeth polite,
not quite the person i remember in those photos.
rather, an imposter in a stoic, brittle shell -
cracked slightly on the inside -
of the you i knew so well.

foreign policy

my bus doesn't stop at yours anymore,
much less 82nd street,
which, even an ocean away, feels so much closer than it should.
and maybe that explains my foreign policy
because after all this attrition it's time to withdraw.
i know i know more than those cunts in charge -
with their false promises, fake problems and insidious smiles -
yet still they have the guts to say they care.

impatient at the red light i scratch your name
into my arm as police police the car crash up ahead
and i trace this fake tattoo with fingertips
stained from last weekend's cigarettes -
the come up from the come down
shuddered by the judder of the bus
as it rolls past the past.
it's may and i'm cold and i want to go home.

those of those

all and far too often

i see the faces of all of those i love

in those of those i don't.

and i can't run away

or hide behind what's left behind

those bitter eyes that memorised

the memories that stretch beyond

whatever we've become

way back into our past.

the last time that i see you

is something i don't need to think about

or fathom just quite yet.

"would that you could touch this angel

in a clutch of snakes" sings blake

to make me smile so sadly once again.

and i guess it's time to leave
because that clutch just doesn't seem
to matter much
or count for more than
wishful thinking anymore.
so close the fridge at 3am,
a tin of curried herring in your hand
and wait for dreams to fuck you up once more.

chekhov

i miss the space where you paced
and then sat and guarded me in white.
with sad brown eyes you talked to me,
uttered words i could never understand.
i still spoke back.
but i don't think you knew i said goodbye.
or rather, i don't think you knew i meant goodbye.
so i returned one dumb, drunk night
expecting you
expecting me
and there you weren't,
save static traces clinging to the rug
like tiny ghosts stretched thin around the world.
i couldn't even call to leave a message.
so now i type your name in code each day,
but seven years for each of mine
takes far too long to fade away.

decaded

midnight park, deserted.
ghostly swings’ hinges sing
and in-between is filled
with echoes of the afternoon.

the grass, freshly cut, has left its mark
on young lovers’ clothes,
has brought life to
old men’s flared nostrils.

graffiti is coarsely etched into
a weathered picnic table.
its words, light brown on grey wood,
read easily: “never again”,
dated september 11, 2001.