Friday, 26 August 2011


Does the meaning lie in the conscience?
London is a hitman stalking me in my waking, never quite losing track
I'm a Hooker, a Politican, a Murderer
Obstinate like an unfiled tax return gathering dust
Bank these better crossings from the channel between flags
For the days of borders and walls are really upon us again
A sleeveless tatooed tourist in picadilly circus takes a seat, oblivious, a fire engine in a traffic jam
I read Sam Kashner and lust for love somewhere between beauty and elegance
This many people, this much to do, commerce, transactions
Mapping the city through footsteps and receipts
Somewhere amidst the debris nestles a little scrap of truth
Even more potential, Ever more trees in the wood
Beyond seeing
The tourist pressed mutes; grey cotton over kaleidoscope skin and I'm still waiting for Faith
Let's find the Wedding AND The Feast and be released from our heroes
Steaming piles of noodles peppered to the Nigerian tongue await us in the morning after, and more delights besides, dancing.

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