BINSEY (rewrite)

i stood in that hollow
once before
you raised me well
taught no feeling

bound up in tape
resurrected
image projected
on concrete wall

dug out by shovel
gouged by fist
i’ve been away
too long

what made you cold?
who made you
all angles
and darkness?

just a scrawl, child
running
down the cave wall
vowels at the mouth

windows, unhinged
hanging
white plastic wings
on cold stucco birds

what held you apart?
pushed you
together
in the black?

broken now into blue
grey
face burned out
standing on the other shore

how do i
swim
to you through this water
two whole feet deep?

i stood in that hollow
once before
neon tubes flickering
too far can’t reach

bring me up to speed now; who
did what, who
died? i’ve been away
too long

fibreglass boards for eyes
cheap
salvaged from bin bonfires
gas leaks

cards in wheel spokes
deal after
deal, loud, dressed
in red, yellow, blue

colours running, the sun
gone
replaced by
“THESE HAZARDS ARE-“

i stood in that hollow
once before
i’ve been away
too long

BINSEY (rewrite)

A Hole To Crawl Through

5 am siren wakes you, sits you

bolt upright into the bleached-pink

sulfur-yellow sun birth

crooked arms reaching ether, extending

hooked tree-claws, bed

full of muttering feathered shadows

unseen pavement glitters

with remnants of night

(stacks & accidents & lost things)

that unknown distant roaring;

same in every city, provincial town,

on mountains; morning earth chant

clouds cream up curved walls of sky

stirred by the sun’s golden spoon

and poured into shining mirror-windows

through two layers to be absorbed by

your eyes; upside-down and distilled

into one stinging fluorescent needle

sound is clearer, brighter

in the hours between, reserved

for being round-edged and murmuring

lie back on pillows, drinking

soft brownness from a chipped pastel cup

light slowly crystallising your form

into something harder, less

prophetic; likely not to witness

an accidental sunrise.

A Hole To Crawl Through

LEAVING THE FLATLANDS

London, I am not one of your children.

I love you in fits and starts.

I am one of those who, on buses, looks up to see the name of the next stop.

I like horizons.

Where I really grew up, you can see for miles.

But you can also see that there is nothing for miles.

I need that sodium disease to add fever to my night.

Sirens are my lullaby, not this distant threatening hummmmm or worse

silence.

So much so that you can hear a pin drop,

hear a psyche being pulled through the eye of a needle,

hear a single muscle twitch in need of something to hold onto

in that vast

velvet

blackness.

London, I don’t want this to be one of those things

where we meet years later at a party and have

nothing to say.

Your flaws are cavernous

but at least they’re obvious.

I forgive you, friend.

I need that overlaid patina of centuries written into

your pockmarked face.

Your burning rubber, screeching tyres, neon blindness.

London, I’m leaving the flatlands.

I’m coming home.

LEAVING THE FLATLANDS