Fancy A Little Guerilla Poetry Warfare In The Morning?

Back in the old days, when things weren’t immediate — when news didn’t travel at lightspeed and creations were nurtured in a bubble of time — things were said to happen in ‘the space of Pater Noster’, the space of God.

photo (7).JPG

Over the next 10 days (I started at 5am yesterday) I will be gracing my favourite streets in London — mostly ones I have lived on over the years — with a little surprise through the letterbox. The aim of the surprise is to serve as a bubble, a space in time between the bills and bank statements, where nothing is asked of you. At worst it makes excellent recycling material; at best it might add a little magic to your day — if you receieve one, whether you like or dislike, please get in touch (contact details on its reverse). x x x

Advertisements

He Walks Among Us

 

An eternity in East London, that’s hell for me,

Trapped with tasseled wasters and sailors with no sea.

Men dressed for hard labor, others as the savior.

Girls get a foot in, take off your top against Putin.

Do what it takes “make the most of your kit.”

3 pounds an arse and 2 pounds a tit.

 

Some dressed in bondage, parents paying the mortgage.

Others like looking like they came from the gutter,

Still sucking the teat of mumma and pappa.

You’re still dressed for bed at a quarter to five,

Have you ever got lost or wished by the Nile?

 

A million rainbows on a million heads,

The spectrum starts to lose it’s effect.

Stop looking at me I’m not here to be seen,

I’m not competition so stop looking so keen.

I’m out of the ring I’m out of the fight,

Take off your armour and let in the light.

 

Bring the country to me, buy a Barbour for rent,

But shudder at the mere suggestion of Kent.

“What about parties and what of the scene?

If I’m not there it’s like I’ll never have been,

Like, I won’t exist if the cool’s not near me.”

 

But this isn’t it, this isn’t right,

Just a great fleshy clod, pulsing with spite.

Where’s the young and the brave? The good and the bright?

Whose interest in space is more than zeitgeist.

You’re wasting time and sipping years.

Using bright socks to cover your fears.

 

The Achilles heel is not feeling what’s real.

Where are you? And what do you do?

Will they remember it in a decade or two?

I’m out of here, the great disconnect,

It’s all money and worry and meaningless sects.

 

The world is a vision and you all look the same,

Get out of my head and get back on the train.

I want some land and muddy beds of thyme,

I want expanse and a quiet slice of mind.

Release me from Smaug, gilded claws in my brain.

Take one giant fuck off pill and I’ll take the same.

 

 

Image