Tuesday, 30 October 2018

Getting Pasty

The rain comes down
At London pace
Where they stare down traffic
Where faces replace the realisation
That I’m listening in
With moving feet
Where Roman Goddesses
Have etched their names
In manhole cover concrete
Past the pub that plays
Dada darts
I read restricted
Smoke extracts
Of headlines of the kind
‘Within the ‘25
The hate preacher must reside’
Geezers in sandals
Real pigeon kickers are
Number 1 chains
In the knob head supply
The quiet of
The American jogger’s
Whispered thanks
The cleaners make
Sweeping statements
And return them
To their banks
The Mini heads up
The parking display
Of inflated ego wars
And emasculated car lovers
Are planet killing bores
There are
Pretty girls in parkas
There’re lines
There’re lines for starters
Calling cards for
The few and the far
Between each leaf kicked
Each day
Is another dream tripped
Because science
Made it that way
The psychosomatic
Non-smoking coughers
Praise swelling bellies
And swelling coffers
Not realising
They spend it
On summat else anyway
A gig goer
Asks for a smoke says
Everyone says go
To Manchester
He asks
MDMA Ecstasy
I say go
You’ll love it
You can find that easily
Where they’re
Japanese adaptors
There’re not lenses
As the early seventies
Hangover alleges
I look like David Essex
But he’s not
A hand washer
He’s a hand washer’s son
And the eves drop
The stopped clock
Will call time on this fun
Where my glass is loaded
The doors lock
Cos they’re smashing
The pub up
Down the road
As these boots were made
For talking over
I look for words to borrow
I say manjana
To this drama
I can see myself tomorrow

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