Awake

There is light
through leaves
again

Green sacking
on scaffolds
twitching
dry

Dust like chalk
gathering
in the crotch
of the curb

Smiles in dresses
shirts and ties
wait for busses
shield their eyes

I watch the sweat
surprising
their faces

Oil glistening
on fleshy
cheese

The cars glint by

I stand
and scratch
my balls

This morning
there was a bird
under my window

Sun and song
shook me
awake

Jack Horner

Should I be some
painted lunatic, slurping
Milton through a straw,
holding the door, for
some well-read tic
to stick his pins in?
Would I look fine
reading lines, juggling
baubles in the corner,
little Jack Horner,
sucking dick for
a gold star? hooray!
Who could want more
than to be the prick
they kick against all day?
No-one can tell me
how to blow my horn;
in, out, bruised or mend-
ed, consenting or wrought,
tranquil or distraught, form-
less or tune-less or wrong,
coming, going, or gone.
Teeth to teat, beat
the words no flunkey's
going to eat, the meat
the dogs are biting off the bone;
go home, sit alone, and
sunshine? Trot along,
go write a fucking love song.

Under the Sycamore Trees

We are two, you and I,
a mask and a cracked saint.
Or are we many? Or
are we one? A laugh,
a cloud out of a grave
that Zarathustra saw,
a thousand masks of children,
angels, owls, fools, butterflies,
a burning bush, a saxophone —
no, you are just a man
from another room.
Close the drapes, do not
step on the kitchen tiles;
you'll slip, they'll hear.
I'm scared of you, but
he's dancing double time
doppelganger steps across
the room, and where's
the crime in being frightened
of yourself? And I'll see you,
I'll see you in the branches
that blow in the breeze.
I'll see you in the trees.

Under the sycamore trees.

Hang Over

I am just an un
named tea. stain suck-
ing-glass-out-of-hand,
coughs, up lungs in
a dish, fin, ger, ring,
hang. over. shirt.
be tween
hours, com.
fort brought
by showers
and wind sin
ging rind of or
ange round ring
fin! gers. cheeks
dead ring! ers
for holy cows
,sapped up and sac red,
(skin on bone)
a horse in a pen
all alone

6am

aHH
STOP
Trees are. shi
ning birds are
sing. ing kids
are co. king
dawn is com
ing ke. babs
roast. ing buds
un, fold. ing
more sun morn
ing tongue is
stretch. ing out
to meet a
tramp. A squin
ting tramp a
blin. king tram
p a perso n
try, ing t
o re
la. te
to
so. me
1
plE
S
M
I
S

*elf

m
or

than.
it.
StoP

Nightswimming

Feel bubbles flood
the corners of my
eyes, hands pushing
through fluid night.
Breathe out all I have
and break the surface,
gasp, shout, pant, flop
down from careless
streets onto my bed.
Dry my hair, shake my
head and really laugh,
throw stones out the
window for crabs to
scuttle at, sit in my
cave and let sand fall
through sponge fingers.
Feel the reach of my
arms, possibility in my
bended knees and soles.
Remember the lights
that blinded me when
I made the last length
and swallowed water,
when I touched the
bottom and thought my
decade old lungs
would burst. I'll
dream tonight of coral,
weird fish, or some
siren on another shore.

Pipspit

An abs-
tract sub-
lime temp
du jour-
knees, plays-
crypt page
ripped out,
I am
left gasp
grasp gha-
sting like
a fish-
sure moul
-ting -dy
rot
ten
apples
into
paste

Saturday Night

We sit. Emaciated mares
braying plumes of steam
to cloud the passing of
a winter sun. Gathered
here to pile in corners,
bags of skin and brittle
bone, we laugh together,
spiny twisted insects,
throwing pale Bowie poses
crazy across the walls.

Lit by candles and christmas
lights, brawling in the halls,
tapping ash into beer cans,
we sit. Someone mentions skag,
we look at our hands.
We should be pissing from
the rooves, blunting our horns,
but we're fed America, we'll live
our bit parts and bloat and choke
on fast food, and be glad.

I step out on the street
and taste chlorine on my
tongue, I rub my eyes
and yawn. I'm still young.
I grin, and gape in all these
lights, and feel my face go
numb. I'm Belial's son,
I'll grin my skeleton
grin, and move on.

Saturday

This song, this wind is cool
on my bones, as I stand
at the edge of the day.
This shirt is course between
the tips. Folded in my
fingers, a sail set, a hand-
kerchief, not a surrender.
Money for a quiet mind.

Down the street, a blod clot
woman shouting the neighborhood
down, she's proud. Her anger
is curling through the far window
of this evening, and somebody
has done her wrong.
Some work attire, some smoke
without fire, some stupid girl
who has the key to Angelo's door.

I cradle my aching arms,
throw a cover over this
beautiful day, this yawning
beast that lies down, a lioness
in a grassy hollow on some
endless plain. Another time,
another place, far from any coast.
I take a sip, hug my knees
and listen for the distant rows
that break at every hour
between the bricks, behind
the many curtains, on the worn
carpets of Cypress House.

Peckham

There is no hope here,
only the fluttering of a moth
battering its wings inside
a fluorescent light, stalls
of stolen watches in
warehouses, bought by tramps.

Only burn victims clutching
strangers' arms and blinking
melted eyes half shut at
the glare from bible shops,
flinching at the thud of
a butcher's knife into flesh.

Only bins full of fish heads,
holes in the road full
of halal meat and bones,
sirens coming closer and
the sound of someone's child
crying in the closing dark.