let’s not worry about titles.. something i writ
When everything has stuck in place
And built on top of that which has settled,
And the structure you see full of eyelets and cracked bare beams,
Makes your skin crawl.
When you crawl bodily away to a patch of space and feel important again,
How can you look back to the call of the rubble?
It calls you by a name you’ve had etched into flesh,
And like that you assimilate again with the city.
Oh but look to the little ratty eating dust with human paws.
And the threadbare pigeon grazing oer the treats of nights before.
There is fruit from out our faeces and
In tangles of asphalt and iron hide tiny pockets
Where life may lift its head without banging
and smell the salts of the sea, though far away.
And though the body rots in fetid alleyways,
Arms trapped beneath the mouldy beams,
In our armpits there is air and breeze and
somehow we must feel such things as a caress so long forgot.
