Saturday, 5 October 2013


(Sorry for the long break between blog entries - I moved house at the beginning of September and BT were supposed to connect me back to the internet within a couple of weeks of the move date, but in reality didn't happen until a few days ago. 

Let's not go on and on about that, though, or talk about how naive I was to actually try staying with them.  Let's put a poem up, shall we?  Yes).

As the man in the Bell Pub
with grey octopus hair
tried to tell me, there is
poetry in this city –
you can find it (son)
in the warm vanilla ice
cream light of night
time terraced houses, the
hilltop display of Christmas
lights strung out
across midnight wires of
roads, the sight of
Canary Wharf, viewed
like a quiet, gently
humming generator from afar.

Try to see it (he said)
in the Heathrow Planes
morsing signals of
life to us down below,
winking that there is
even more life and love
above, and try to
understand that
every scuff your feet
leave on the pavement is
another line on the
city’s Pollock painting.

Your problem (he sneered) is
just that it always continues,
with or without you, and
you cannot see it all at once.
It cannot be fixed, defined,
badged with single
metaphors, and soft
signs of easy requited love.
It writes itself, and will
continue to do so,
even when you’re gone.
“How do you like that?” he
asked, leaning back in
his chair, killing me off
with the point of a single
stinking, righteous finger.

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