Pregnant Witness

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There are two guys fighting on the street.
One is in a car
mouthing off,
revving,
head twisted back,
one hand on the wheel —
the other, I assume, is on the hand break.
The second man pursues the creeping vehicle up the hill,
speaking in tongues.
The first talks in spits and swerves his wheels.
I can’t hear what they are saying;
I’m sure it’s very important
but I am watching the pregnant witness
who looks out the window opposite.
Glasses on, she can see their very animated picture,
but she opens the window to better hear the drama
because her life is empty of it.
There is no darkness in her
refurbished house in leafy suburbia.
I would like a life like that
but I’ve too many shades on me, it would seem,
a spinning prism is my diadem.
So I’ll watch the pregnant witness
watching the two men screaming on the streets;
she’ll get some junk mail later
and that’ll be as bad as it gets.

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Photo: Martin Parr
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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.

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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

Spoilt Rotten

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My soul has buckled under the weight of all the strange gifts you have given me,
Crumpled like the silver linings I crushed with the beer cans in the recycling.
But still you keep giving, donating twisted things to a
Cabinet of curiosities that’s already bursting at the seams.
You –
If that is your real name.
Me,
And my essence depleted to the compact crystals of flint.
But still you bleed me like a maple tree,
Leech from me
I walk through the streets like a zombie.
Not hungry.
Dim mist is me.
You
Who kicks stones at the legs that keep marching,
Keeps laughing at the ghost with no life-lines.
“She’s so persistent; but aren’t they all
Drowning in my dream whirlpool.”
Can you see us in the water?
Can you see us in the bright blue-green?
Can’t you see that I’m your daughter?
Can’t you see I’m in the waving trees?
It’s
Such
A
Long
Fall
For
You,
You who speaks in sunlight
But giggles in blackness.
Yeah you,
Who I forgive for the heavy treasures I did not wish for,
That I will not list here –
Did not put on my Christmas List either –
Because there is warmth in the wind, there are grebes in the pools and there is
A man who speaks softly to his dog. Who speaks like the earth.
Press this still-wet summer grass against my flesh.
In the seconds of this particular forever
All is well, and all that is wraps me in its bubble
And rolls me down the hill. To the lake
Where the bathers go to chill their brittle bones.
So cold.
Where did you go?
There are whispers when it’s hardest that
You
Do not exist.
But there is drama in your silence
Like the bottom of the sea.
See me: I am the echo of the waves.
Living proof of
Nothing
But a siren call called
You.

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Painting: Milky Way by Peter Doig

Ben Fogg Makes Laugh

Meant to put this up a while ago: hilarious friend, writer, director, pianist, comic, producer, control freak/genius, Ben Fogg, has made some rather hilarious videos to help him gain er gainful employment. They really are funny. And he pixilates his privates. And I’m in a couple of ’em, of course (otherwise it’d be shit) (no, they wouldn’t have) ….

http://shavenape.tv/index.php/portfolio_page/fogg-for-sale/

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The Third Revolution of the Wheel

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Stop. It’s all over now. This is all it ever was.
There is no time to mourn,
you have lost nothing.
It had already gone so long ago it never was.
This was it all along. This was that feeling of
foreboding.

The end.
A little death, the little future in our heads
put to sleep
with a pretty little kiss,
on the dot where our minds had met.

It’s all over now.
And so whole new worlds must begin. Whole new avenues
of bright roads
to fill the cavity of the past.
The vacuum of all that never was,
bags filled with everything you ever loved.

Such is life.

 

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Leona

 

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Let’s take a car, I feel a drive coming on. We’ll leave tonight,

I don’t know where I’m going, but they always told me I won’t get far;

to be safe we’ll take the dodgy roads and find it twice as fast.

Get in the car.

There’s no time, it’s all at once. All thrown at us in glittering dust.

Pack a lunch. Take bunch of diazepam and relax. Please, dump the cat.

We leave tonight, there is no space nor time. I have a suicide pact with life,

so we’ll skip the lights; colours are just colours on this drive.

 

You read my mind. I wanted you in the passenger side.

Feels good behind the wheel. Just you; and me, steering this speeding vehicle;

travelling our own reel of film that unwinds with the roads and ends with a blink.

No time to think, we could die in an instant, in all these instances,

Good thing I’m running on instinct.

Hold my leg lose, as lose as your grip on reality. The space to move

is what appealed; shall we have a Spanish tragedy?

 

Let’s dim the headlights a bit, increase our chances with the stars.

We’ll go to a small village, further south, called íllar. Where the men grow tomatoes and

the women sit outside,

where a woman once lay dying and mouthed “hablar, hablar, hablar,”

to the hot sun, to the stray dogs, to the open windows, to the infinite cicadas.

Her conversation with the earth.

But of her they’d say “She doesn’t want it bad enough.” She won’t get too far.

And of them all she heard, was “bla, bla, bla.” Sayonara sweet Leona.

 

Forget her. Here’s the Big Shake Down, that turning on the left.

I hope you brought your guns, I can see you wore your best. Take a sip,

it helps to be under the influence if you’re going to rob a bank.

Now, that would change our status: ‘Wanted’ at last.

Making it big out on the run, just imagine. We’ll probably be famous.

I wonder what they’d name us; you, me, and this speeding vehicle.

What did we want so bad?

 

Do we want it enough to crash? Then we’re agreed.

I’ll turn it too fast, hit a wall like Cameron Diaz

in that blue Buick Skylark.

That’ll make the page, we died just for laugh.

As it all turns out and round and round, I didn’t want nothing at all, all along.

She got further than you think, the lady who lay dying;

all the way to Cassiopeia, leaving only necklaces

 

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Orchestra of Pylons

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I miss the pace, if I’m honest. If I’m honest,
I miss making margaritas braless behind the bar, with my lost friends egging me on.
I miss lacking class.
I miss cracking glass, slapping tarts, watching boys brawl, crashing through walls. I miss creating new scars.
I miss the race, I want excess, I miss the tumble, I like disgrace. I find romance in it.
I crave attention, I like aggression. Can I entice you to fight me?
I’m born the year of the tiger, I like to be cornered. Come a touch closer,
I’ll be the pain you’ve been pining …

I miss the pace, if I’m honest. If I’m honest,
I miss your name in my mouth, like a sweet I roll around.
I miss crying wolf. I hate standing tall. I like being chased, but what I love’s
getting caught. I like bratty, I like bitchy, I like catty, I like spoilt.
I like smashing tennis balls in to the other court.
I miss dancing. I miss shouting. I miss big. I miss grand. I miss the West of
America, I miss all my worst plans.
I miss carelessness, recklessness, the mottling of flesh. I miss the clamp of fear
that held me together, kept in my mess.

I miss the game, if I’m honest. If I’m honest,
I miss being run through the mill. I even miss dead bluebottles on the windowsill.
Still, I’m nimble from my childhood years; and still,
there’s the thick, soft grass I’d jealously watch the horses eat,
there’s still rivers and streams, the nettles still sting.
But now there’s never a sound but the wind, that howl. That pain between the wires,
an orchestra of pylons, just to remind me
I miss the streets. I miss the hard concrete that once fractured my teeth.
I repeat: if I’m honest, I miss the pace.
So my advice is chase only the heat, and revel in it.

 

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