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.

Daydream V

I hope to run, to burn
this new skin on, wrap
it in wind, tan it in
the sun, and when it's
done, wash it off
like so much sweat.
While the afternoon
wears on, I hope to
lie, spread like a cat
across the flagstones,
to let my hunger
smile and stretch,
and cough up little
bones. I hope to slice
a stripe of lemon rind
from the sky, let it
sour my teeth, yellow
my pages, and hold
it up at night, citrus
moon. I hope to peel
and crackle, dead bugs
fried onto my skin,
and beneath lobster-
red, feel juices run.

Dry Rot

Maybe we twisted some tendon wrong
in a hole back there, tangled hair
in the thorns and ripped a wig-full.

Maybe we saw the news, said it was
terrible, or stared into the earth
of our allotments, and dug spades in,

careful not to puncture anything
too fragile. Maybe we saw an eye-full,
cut our lip on the lip of the cup, dripped

a little drop of red onto the wood.
Maybe our laughter tumbled, spat
over the brim into a jumble of leopard

spots, brambles, lamb's brains, card
games, stupid gambles, signs, stigmata.
Maybe the rules were not clear-cut.

Maybe our cars were found in ditches,
stripped for parts, or maybe we died
of bad consciences, or weak hearts.

Maybe we asked too much, shouted curses
at our benefactors, threw childish glances
and split, spent our money, then threw

a fit, spilling guts, brains, debris, loose
change, saliva, semen, plasma, bile,
all into an assorted sack of dross.

Or maybe we learnt who was boss,
choked on cough drops, tightened up
our ties, top-notch, and learnt never
to be surprised.
                                    Maybe, eventually,
we all crumbled, succumbed to dry rot.

Flags

We wear these colours as flags
that declare the sun, ragging
as the breeze plies our skin.
The heat rises, colours deepen
slowly with our odour. Our feet
flash across concrete. All around,
the sounds of sirens and jangling
guitars, smoke signals on the green.
The air is full of mutterings
from inside shady stores, shouts
out of windows, jokes barked
on street corners. They are
received and translated, spun
into the fabric of each bright shawl,
each white shirt. On the roofs
the pidgeons sweat and thirst.
They came, cut the new growth off
the trees outside my window. Last
night I found them as barren giants.
Today even they are naked.

Nereid

There is a crowd of bodies
over the sand. The sea whisks
itself into a bad conversation,
as I count the tiny grains
beneath my toes. I glance up,
wince at the glaring bikini
tops in blue and red, count
migraine pills from a bottle,
stung bright with the sun.
There are children basted,
wrapped up in cotton shorts,
roasting in the shallows. Splayed,
tangled in a web of foam,
they are prey for jellyfish
or tenderised for waiting
barracuda, not watched by
the white loaves of pot-bellied
weekenders on the dry shore.
I make steps, moulding what
could be glass into perfect
casts for sculptured shoes,
following my burnt knees
with damp white feet, leaving
a trail from the forest of bare
pasty flesh, along the edge
of the shallows, up to where
the real sculptures are.
Here the rocks have chosen
to drop their ice cream cones,
assumed poses more becoming
of demi-gods or the off-cuts
of lunatic architects. Far
behind my back, I still hear
the complaints of a desert-full
of bulging troglodytes, up-
rooted from their crab burrows
and exposed to light, guarded
only by their waist-band fat.
I look down into the pool,
where microbes and crustaceans
dance and stumble. Suddenly,
before my eyes, the spirit
of these sands appears, only
to toss her brown curled locks
into the rock pool, only to
smile the sand out of my eyes
and lay a hand upon my
coral figure, tame my collar
bone and cool me like a statue,
only to offer me a single
wet glance from her lips,
and place a pale pearl foot
in my hands for me to kiss.