Tag Archives: London

Archway Post Office

‘Excuse me,’ the woman in the blood-red-cotton-
jersey-synthetic mess of a unioned-uniform shirt
stopped. The package, her hand.

The distance of none.

‘Were you always a cunt, or did you just turn
into one when the menopause hit?’

Package snatched back. From hers to hers.

A smile, a wave, a twirl.

Exit left, worker stayed right

Customer served the smile.
What service.

29 September. Band Plays.

Four musicians sit
at a table.
Two violinists
A banjo player
+ my ol’ gee-tar player.
My fingers smell of cigarettes.
My breath it hints of booze.

The sins + shames of my father are free
for me to choose.

My player he talks of writers.
He plays in open chords + sings
heartbroken songs.

Here. A corner am I. My eyes on ink
+ musician prize.

The crowd around me talks of brew,
ears all blinded of my chosen music’d few.
What is a musician when they do not play?
A person holding a tool of leisure, grace + taste.

Harmonied song the two men play. A voice not
listened but definitely heard by all roomed.
The violin, she sings but not heard like my
eyes’ divine.

Eyes of vision. Eyes of sight. How I wish
to hold you tonight.

Three musicians sit at a table. My musician
he stands + looks around. What he thinks.

What I know. The Eternal Difference
Away he goes out through the front door.
Dissolved in smoke + song of
London’s All.

Four musicians at a table.
A rogue man to have joined.
Accordion, squeezing in
+ out in rhythmed,
musician’s time.

My Eyes Divine
still outside.
In a Corner
Here I still am.
Inked fingers
with still haunted
demon’s drink breath.

To ask to be the
cigarette my Divine
lips touch is too
much – even for
a Shakespearian Hamlet
as I.
Instead contented
I will only hope to
forever be by his side.

To my Left he’s now
appeared. By definition is
he to my side.

Cruel Fate. You knew
what I meant. Instead
of 3 feet divided did I
wish to feel his hurried

Up + down +
Up again.

Five musicians sit.

And gazing alone am I.
Divided by a Diagonal line
am I to my Eyes Divine.
What he wonders +
What I mind.
Difference divided behind
Different-coloured Eyes.

Five musicians now
sit + play.
No words are spoken
but oh what minds might say.

The Underworld

They can take your body
but not your soul.
It’s only your body,
and not your soul –
but I fell in love with
that body that houses
an even greater soul.

Does that make me
selfish? I don’t care
to know. The first
time I saw you that
a-long-time ago how was
I supposed to know what
kind, great man you were?

Take me instead, take me
instead, just let them
leave my eyes and hands
and I’ll have enough to
live again.

Before they take me ears,
my dear, allow me to hear
your voice one last time….

Does that make me selfish?
I don’t care to know.
The first-time I saw you
I knew that I didn’t
want you to go.

Brown eyes matched
Who’d have though
that such a star from
a Northern boy could capture
the heart of mine on a
Saturday night without
words until the end.

This isn’t new,
I’ve felt and fallen with
love before but never
until now have I loved you.

Hoped Words

Simple four-worded questions
disrupted by a twelve-hour delay.
I’m so bored in this suspension,
wires dangling and looping.
So fucking bored to hear
whatever you say.

I’ll celebrate to hear
the words and hope
they go my way.
I hope you go my way.

After all this time, wish
sawed off days and delays,
it’d be a wasted hesitation
just to hear you say

the words and hope
they go my way.
I hope you’ll be going my way.

I wish I could draw
you as you were in
my dream, lying
on your back in bed,
in my bed.

I want to live in your reality
‘I would not like to die’ you said in the polluted night.
then you’re not living right.

And the words, the words you said
will in hope, go my way.

27 April 2015 (WIP)

At last have I
the pain to fill
the hearts of Keats,
of Darcy, Fitz.

Oh, such pains to
fill the Turners and
Nichols – this is not
a stong of loss, but
a product of art.

I am part of the greats,
of doing before thinking
and throwing in my soul the
heart into worlds it need
not know.

Now I’m one of my heroes,
an Austen, a writer, a player.
We’re all equal and all
it needed was mt soul to take.

A Bronte, a Welsh,
a Vizzini – we’re all one now.