We poured from the pub that abyssal night,
A full pint of rain dripping from our noses.
Flowed down waving streets of aching hands
And were gratefully absorbed by our houses.

Waking from millimetres of sleep,
To board crumbling trains in the deep-sea rust,
We still believed in some perfect room
Left over from the night, where we trust

That the women, still, come and go
And they, Still, talk of Michelangelo.

But to teach that the night-struggle is glorious
And to preach that we must always strive
Is merely to leave a choice between
Holy repentance and free, pagan pride

And if my next move, now, is a choice between
Rook to knight four, or knight to rook four,
How can I choose the latter
If the former is, still, the board?

Where the endless March tides would carry me,
With the slow wavelength of nicotine
That sea of camphor would embrace me,
and gently stroke my memory clean.

But remember just one thing, my son
In the whiplash of your final December,
When your swollen arteries are clogged,
When your spite is almost dead, remember;

That our eyes, my brother,
and our minds are merely other
Weapons of imperfection
with which to punish one another.

were extruded from the ground already leaning.

For that year I feared to lose my hold,

and that first night i woke with a screaming

cry, then a quiet sigh,

and now just silent, slight

surprise.

It started in the West Country.  It was started by a woman.  Her children were supposed to be up on the moors.  She looked innocent enough though, in The Mirror.

Then riots, killings, torture.  Children were read, books were burnt.

Your personal effects.  They happened slow.  They happened imperceptibly.  But, one day, you passed a sign.  It said You Have Been Warned, and you actually, carefully took note on your scorecard.

You Have Been Warned.

Later, when at the university, he would occasionally return to this talk, in the midst of lectures.  The students, the first time, were awestruck.  This tweeded man, grey streaks of hair pulled forward over his bony forehead, talking in tongues.  The assembled mass, their noses red from the winter morning, stared.  That was the first few times.

Later still, even once the language had been well studied, it still stood as a pseudo-joke.  Something to be hinted at in the corners of pubs, where those used to talking in the upright, pub, drink, money nouns would, in their drunkeness, descend into the strange moonly-rising tongue.

A flowered face, tendrils crawling over it’s eyebrows, stares down.  It watches the lilies skating over the carpet.  Foot-long butterflies skim thier voilet flowers, sending circular ripples beyond where the walls were.

Where the boards were stand roots, iron-brown trunks drip azure tears into the sheltering sky, and the moon blows softly in.

houses huddle here.

Under the tree thrown sideways,

under the streetlamp violence.

They started as cracks in the pavement,

before pebbles, then tiles, pour out.

Solidifying as it billows upward,

it has a face of coral,

and a purpose made of glue and pins.

on one side their is the choice to choose

between a flint spear-head of desireless will

and the opiate-infused day sweats.

but then, if the choice is only available

through a sublimation of myself

can the choice ever be met?

if my choice of move, now, is between

knight to queen four and queen to knight four

how can i choose the latter

if the former is the board?

I’m not sure how many people regularly commute to London from their very own suburb, but it must be a sizeable proportion of the population of good old London town.

I count myself in a somewhat priveledged position here, if you can call it that, because I commute the other way. From my flat on threadneedle street (yeh, right) I go to Bromley to waste far more time than is necessary working. I ride a bike.

This, in itself, is nothing special. What is, though, is the wind. In the morning, the friction caused by all those lattes being lifted, from all the skinny jeans being drawn over newly shaven legs, creates hot air. As any of you who have been to school will know, this means that the air above central London rises. Thus, the cold, refreshing air of the suburbs (provided mainly by the notoriously thrifty “poor”, God Bless Them) instantly wants a part of the gentrified action. It breezes in, as it were.

Eight hours pass, and the sun goes down(ish). Suddenly, all that rustic air, having sunned itself in the *ahem* sun all day, decides to rise. There’s probably cider up there or something, or perhaps just a massive joint, I don’t know, anyway; the point is, the city air blows the other way, out of London.

I wouldn’t have noticed this, of course, if i hadn’t of been riding the other way ALL THE BLOODY TIME. It’s a bit annoying. But, and this is important, it means that all you people commuting into London probably aren’t aware of this. It’s pretty hard to notice wind that blows in exactly the same direction, at almost the same pace, as you. About as hard, I would say, as noticing someone on the train. This is exactly the point, although there are two ways of looking at it.

The first is that the wind has decided to go to work. All you guys have made it so embarassed that it’s decided to stop arsing about blowing flags and lifting skirts and got itself a suit. To put it bluntly, we made it do this, mainly by making the city itself.

The second is that it’s making us do it. This is the scary one. As though it was meant to happen, that there has always been this tide in London, and we are being swept along against our will. As if, when waking in the morning, you have no choice but to get the train. That the train cannot divert it’s course. That, whilst eddies may take you into Starbucks, that whilst a powerful car may allow you a week in the country, you are caught. You are the wave, breaking every morning against bulwarks of concrete.

Of course, the perceptive among you will have realised the obvious.

The two are not incompatible.  We created this, and we are trapped in it.

It starts when cycling between buildings

means cycling into the current.

And continues when, after too much coffee,

you are sucked backward from the street.

Seen from below, it’s a dust sheet

thrown over a model town.

protected from the eyes of visitors,

but left to mildew, to turn brown

where the occasional wind that slips from the seams

does not care to sweep nor clean.

It comes to conclusion when, directly over me,

the folds cannot be made to mean

either thick, distant, high banked clouds

or a thin, damp, summer shroud.