Trains Passing Through French and Belgian Towns Late at Night
gathers up neon
waltzing from tongues
like Betjeman is
sleeping beside me,
a moniker for
dusky mushroom vines
lingering under night,
and I turn
to a nuclear
family beside me
dated by a
from maybe 1975
first showing me
what France and
Belgium looked like,
in trains passing
late at night
through towns with
names swollen on
Pye radio frequencies
are broken collarbones
in pick-axe streets
where the guy in shoes
no man under 60 should wear
wants to cure people
of their communism and their sodomy.
The stained glass windows of St. Mary's
finger finks like pebbles hiding in milk,
sneaking away on their bicycles
their guts trash
like a shroud against a typhoon
The Journey of the Proton Through Mass Production and Global Consumerism
Secretly - I like to read Thom Gunn -
after darkness falls like cheap airline jets and poisoned flies;
before dawn it's Sexton and Plath
last sighted on a cargo-plane
they think I'm a spy I'll be one,
(howzat grab ya?)
Numerous possibilities exist in marketing right now,
the iron’s hot and it's time to strike.
Tighten that tie, you son of a bitch,
in my previous life it was a noose
on a gallows in Cheyenne
(or Shy-Anne as I called her, her sister Betty, well she wasn't that great either),
and I piss a cup of Joe
standing by the water-cooler
sharing the secrets of tarot cards
and golf weekends
and Bud and Lou fighting back-stage in 1949.
But how do they fit the figs in the fig rolls?
was all I heard them say that first day
in Marketing 101.
And opening the 18th floor window to a Roger Waters
I took flight, jacket off
and tie slapping my face in a cross-wind cruising over the bay.
Hong Kong was in all its glory
and the number count of protons
holding the world economy together
coming in at 15,894 digits across the slimy scales
of the stock market
raping penniless widows
across the tumours of the horizon.
Whoops big fella,
easy on the Miracle Whip,
you may end up with a coronary
instead of a knife to your throat.
After they scraped me
from the sidewalk
they took my Thom Gunn away, screaming like a loveless baby;
they cut through his spine like an old Saxon road
and counted every
and atom welding as one their dreams
cocaine and poontang.
on my grave,
took a taxi
straight to the airport. Could’ve been a whole lot worse
I guess, like poor cousin Leslie
lying on the floor in ‘72
writhing with the ungrounded microphone
and the guitar like Dante in his other hand,
and her heart
about to burst in the claggy London heat.
All they did to me was send me to the gallows yet again, hoping to get it right this time.