The Last Night

Tonight New Cross is in remission,
curled up together in a hole, full
of gin and joint and love to keep
us going on. There are those wet
nights like these, you just drop
the needle in the track, take that
swig, neck it, smoke your mind out
to a different place, and think more
about a girl, waiting in another
hollow like this. Looking out into
the night, you're going to come down
in a jet, clouded over, pale, but
stronger than glass or guitar strings,
to run and not fall down, to sweep
up anything you had left, and when
its time, just to fall down with her.

Downpour

Outside the storm
hisses at my concrete and sifts
the grass-water from the gutter
juice, the night closes its eyes
and feels each drop slide down.
The storm has come for me,
the butter fingered branches
drop every cup.
The slush is foaming at the bank.
I lick caught air and turn
to you ready to sling shot
off this grey stone, through sky,
to blue, and the green lip
of your vast continent.

Water Works

Beyond my street's de
                                                          capitated trees
victorian semis peter out
                                                  to victorian sewers.
There's the colonnade,
                                                            the crap flats,
then old pipes wrenched out
                                                            of the ground
by greasy fingers in the rain,
                                                        slipped, skipped,
plastic put back in again.
                                                                I sip a glass,
which will slip through me to
                                                  stream, jaundiced,
from pipes, mine to theirs,
                                                                  old or new,
the piss is still the same.

Flood

The house is flooded,
and all you can do
is hum a childhood
song, tongue a half-
hearted half tone now
and again, let one sign
escape your bible mouth.
The place is ruined, wet
through, and wine glass
splashes ring silver bells
every time they tumble
to the floor. Your fine
distractions are soused
and only stare stupidly
as you run a finger
along their gilt edges,
or turn their sodden
pages. They are mourning
for this washed up hour,
when the clocks spit
apologies and bow, then
realise their rust, and
stammer into silence.

Stairs

There's people on my stairs, fucking.
Call me square, but isn't that one
thing done behind curtains, doors,
in "private"? Not between floors,
wearing out the carpet, bare-arsed,
moaning, like a couple cripples fell
on a tricky step, and got mixed up.
I must be out, they think, asleep,
absent or indisposed, insignificant
as far as late night shag consideration
goes. Well fuck it, its my house too.
I step out my room, grin; "I thought
this was a staircase, not one of those
sex shows." They jump, stutter, and
blushing, scrabble for their clothes.

Dribble

I could be a priest,
or a cockerel, a joke,
a clumsy mime. Only

sleep-walking or urgent
phone calls disturb each
night time. I'd paint

if I had the hands,
lay bricks for bridges, or
gamble with the peasants.

If I walked the street,
let one laugh slip, I
would have to hear the eye

bark back, and blink.
I've broken promises, tied
knots, heard voices, stepped

on cracks. I'm meant to
understand the words
that dribble from these lips.