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.

warm and wasted

the heat in london reminds me of our first time in new york -
sticky restless and impossible to sleep.
up early from the jetlag
drenched in sweat and dreams
unpacking bags to create
some permanence in a temporary home.

brooklyn was dry and dusty, warm and wasted,
its streets sad and stained - like two broke-up lovers'
unwashed sheets on a bed unmade for weeks.
we traced the sidewalk cracks and subway tracks
famous trademarks and public parks,
mini-marts and shopping carts
full of rheingold and hershey's, wrigley's and miller,
mountain dew and alka seltzer
and, in amongst the pancake mixes,
aunt jemima's bright white beam,
smiling hard to forgive the past.

windows open, we sweat beneath the covers here and now
pretending to be there and then - or anywhere or when
that we don't have to think or work or try too hard
to just be us and happy.
well travelled back in time through cans of beer,
we are briefly there through humid air
to smell the hot rain on the street
and sing along to love and alcohol
and thoughts we've loved for years.
but we know all too well
just how the past will pass - come sunrise,
new york will disappear again
replaced by tired, dried, hayfevered, london eyes.

piece by piece

if you could bury your bones,
do you know where you would put them?
because i still smell your scent
and will try to dig them up.
with muddy paws and broken claws
i'd drag you through the earth
until you surfaced piece by piece.
never let you rest.
i would lay you out
in the comfort of a home you'll never know,
peel off your skin
and lick you clean,
gnaw at your cartilage
then suck your marrow dry,
nibble at your eye sockets
crack your skull and break your ribs,
feast upon your spine
swallow all your teeth
and chomp and chew and crunch until you splinter into shards -
smaller smaller smaller -
one by one, piece by piece.
i'd never let you sleep.

metronome

the clock is a heartbeat
is a metronome
is a life
counting down
not up
from zero to death
in a hundred years
or less.
could be tomorrow.
could be tomorrow.
could be tomorrow.
the thought of no more thought
like silence when the battery runs out.