This Brief SojournThis shallow fucker, thischisel-jaw, short mad hairbent nose, red-face smokingforehead-wrinkle pencil lipgreen-grey eyessparsely freckle addict looking shallowold, old, old fucker - shallow fucker --it's, it's not me.i have long hair, and substanceand some latent glint of knowledgehidden in bright blue eyesand seas of forever ending notionslapsed in short wave conundrumsstill fathoming that the soul might beworth somethingother than a peripheral glance at Time..i'm sitting in woodland, dreamingcertain of remaining
BPï»¿"It's time for a change of scenery, I feel."Having breathed these words, my accomplice got comfortable on the platform floor. Sitting egolessly in the lotus position, he looked at once serene and bewildered. I watched him focus his art of non-focusing and imagined I could see his mental capacities, firing away: now a fleeting thought being gently forced aside; now a sexual urge brought about by a naughty glimpse. Of course, I couldn't really know what he was thinking. But I had a good idea.The overhanging electronic sign blinked a new admission as the 13:42 to King's Cross chundered to a halt before us."Your carriage awaits, O Englightened One."An eye twitches. "Hmm?""Train, man, the train's here. A portable portal to bring about that change of scenery you so desire". I bow, stretching out a guiding arm toward the open-sliding doors in mock servitude.Unbending his legs, he says: "You know that's not the kind of change I meant".Yeah. I know.***We materialise o
youmakemesodamntenderYou make me so damn tender!I urge to wrap the coolness of night within meAnd - maybe - re-awaken you inside my quivering womb.All I can think is:The roads are wet; you're half-blind;you're tired; you're young.Don't die.My womb shakes once, twice.
Back, So Sudden, So SlowReturning home after six weeksI'm surprised by these disperse (mis)comparisons:-The grubbiness of sterling coins,The very very oldness of themAnd the frailty of my Grandmother's voice -So small, so far away.The dirty stench of countrysideManure and grass and grit and shit,Beautiful, unexplainable shit.A tight threnody of an embrace with my mother -Like we're back to wearing matching jumpersIn Poor ChristmasTime.Like we're back six weeks.I'm so changed, I say,So very newFreshUndifferentSo much the same.And I just want to kiss the fucking carpet,Intake the Englishness of it.I've been stained by the half-ruined structures of Athenian will,Touched to the core by Vesuvian casts of ancient bodies,I've climbed stairs to take in the Firenzian view,Met strange friends and friendly strangersWilling to offer a liftTo ports, to ports, to ports and back.My lungs have climbed Alpine airBreathed the Roman dirt of old, old streets,Tasted Sifnosian biscuits with a tired tong