Yellow lids and the greed ripples padding

to the left,

no sorry, to the right.

Over the canal lobby cry

right at me – glancing

Mallard is in, the others

follow behind

blocks of uneven cubes laid to rest

lay with me as I sit

with Brunell –

they come and they go,

exit and leave

sky blue shell – she’s left already

sheldon square now sees me

where the red gas cans stand

walking upward and over,

the air becoming colder.

I’ve been here before –

my entry here on training

my exit in a bed I’ve never slept,

with people I’ve never met.

phone calls I don’t understand;

images break with words

nosense and falling apart – the language is failing me.

Unspeakable moments never heard,

conversations I can’t understand

on Friday I’ll feel the physically sick

and that’s all I understand about it.

Hide and design.

Be the runner, the rider and the rower,

… stand there unreal.

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The last of the sticks, so

colour me quick.

The maize blaze burns

but the tossers still turn,

the last of the cigarette.

Bodies below

blow

me, and colour me quick –

the beats that sync on a

canal boat trip tide.

The secrets of people peeling.

Inner sense smells and the philly boys play

as the cherry rests on top

but the birds are still singing as the strings

hold

up tight

colour me quick.

Sinita dishes out balls –

spreadable with the truffle cheese

honey …

she’s sweet and up that video junk

 

A dale.

An advanced tenant termination,

the letter S flouts and floats

four weeks and you found him.

London fields green

or a number 8, I’m not quite sure

No blazer and an empty bath …

You must have. Pool the pitch and raise.

Fixed on the glistened foil

as it’s actually three.

Roses and toes,

can I show your room Sunday, morning

book a block and be in touch –

the rectangular mute is dead.

 

 

where the 113 is not for me

 

The best is 3 Downing Street;

It was so funny but a lot of people arnt experienced.

The police boats pass,

and the Oyster Bird sings,

When gradually all the lights shine

at 9pm. The turning and the tuning – on and on.

Don’t eat anything – take the nicotine,

It hits you quicker at one;

…But don’t trust anyone.

Inhale and exhale as the text begins to blur

I was like “Oh shit, and you can see my breasts”.

But the red glows firmly now – but still talks the talk like a chat magazine.

It’s the end of the line, and the golden flame disappears,

sailing slowly, the opposite drawing near.

The naked body of the ‘Making Life Easier’ – the tornado clipper

As the Great British flag blows.

The waves are turning harder now, as the current takes control

It passes and eases but the red still signals where the architecture will lay –

10 years time or so.

But where will you be when it gets colder, when the fingers turn purple?

And there’s nothing left to see.

Walk the beat at your very own pace, and feel it from,

this very ginger spirit den, where the 113 is not for me.

 

 

The deafening underground.

The morning commuters struggle, taken by stride as he stands slightly off central – more so maybe something to do with last night. An untucked shirt and untied cuffs suggests he’s not in for the morning ride. Shaking his paper upright, he bury’s his head to read. Blurred lines.

The other sits back, slouched. Head tilted to the right. My left, focussing on some text above my head. Lilac silk ties and coal black shades – his shoes shine slightly as his bag sags between his legs, loosely.

Listening to ‘We Are Nowhere and Its Now’, by Bright Eyes as father gave me a CD yesterday, a leaving gift.

Comes after work when the features start to blur.

Did you forget that yellow bird?