I’d skip registration
and catch the 535 into town,
slapping into a dusty seat I would sit
staring at mother’s force feeding the morning
bottle and old couples supporting
one another down the isle.
I’d walk through the street, past building society’s
packed with pension grubbers, dolites
and mortgage scrabblers; coffee palaces
brimming with comfy jeans snuggled
into war torn leather, supporting double-shot
skinny de-caf frappuccino with sprinkles,
doubling up on false conversation.
I step up through the path
across redemption paving,
in through the archway
and sit in the the pew.
I’d watch old birds peck at dirty pages,
while the collared chap
dusts the ripped
oak beams, eyes praying for conversation.
This is your God now, shallow
and deafeningly silent.
I bought one one of your necklaces
and paid in gold, frankincense and myrrh:
It’s buried somewhere I think, gulls
probably squawk above it.
With paint and fury the urban demi-Gods flip solitude and make it trendy. Splashing bi-polar obsessions onto carbon- copied canvas. Sunglasses, bandanas and all; surfing hype and the beauty of art and temper. Stop fucking reading, beating off to DVD’s of flesh and listening to spoken word. Watch. Art. Feel your muscle build in both biceps and your spine tingle and tighten to the synth and weed.
Smoke rings talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk until chalk and talc and talk and talk and talk and talk become tawlk and taulk and lose all meaning.
I hear the scream of a Tyrannosaur. My bedroom window is open: It’s still screaming. Chatter and anonymous voices try to contain the shreiks and vices and feeble pains. The winds stab walls like cans of spray-paint, shaking and clicking:
Stencilling Clowns onto the sides of Banks and markets. Burning money; green and purple and gold. Dealing with white cheeks and wide red faces that talk and talk and talk and taulk and tawlk and talk and tawlk and talk and taulk and taulk.