Tuesday, 24 February 2009


Last night I dreamt about your kiss
sunlight on my lips

something spun in my chest

a kind of flame
which flutters
in your silence.


The secret of human genius
Lies in heartbreak
Does God feel guilt
After a storm?
Whatever doesn’t kill me
Makes you stronger.
All love exists now.
There will always be a piece of me
Inside you.


Dickensian voices,
girls with exotic eyes,
the diseased breath of London,
impatient traffic,
agitated faces,
angry haggard bodies
lose themselves in the noise.
King’s Cross is a profligate bustle,
an economy of beeps,
lights and smells,
a dangerous knife-like carnival,
loud, expensive and grotesque.
Everyone’s colours opened,
ears plugged with phone-calls or a private soundtrack,
and their expressions rushing past
with a grimace.


The colour of tragedy
Brilliant and cold
My tears sting in the breeze
Thinking about how lovely you are
And everything in its perfect place
Ready to perish


Points at her pussy
And laughs
‘Hey Jack!’
Anna Leena looks surprised
When I look into her warm eyes
‘I’m poor. No Money. You wanna drink?’
30 euros fuck that
‘I have to work now.’
Taps me friendly on the shoulder.


Girls here are ugly
Hard African noses
Eyes like caves
The men have impoverished faces
And bark loudly in the street
Chain smoking and laughing
From the chest.


Cheap sandwich bar
Pirate clientele
With dust for skin
Share secret sarcasms.


The policemen
Talk in a loud rattle
Drag me from under the concrete
Leave me in the wrong hotel
My tongue like a rotten cloth
Memories of drunk Irishman
And bad beer
The disappointed pimps.


Whitewashed houses
Buttered across the hills
Clouds sit on the mountain
Slums squashed together
On the Volcanic crags
On the dry, brittle soil.

Sprinkled on the sea
Is a chilled sun.

At night Africa hides
In the velvet distance
The large wild heart
Of the Black Madonna


I will survive
Cheesy songs make me think of you
In bed my mind is stuffed with heat
Awake now
A scattered heart.

God shed his skin today
In Tenerife on Christmas Eve
I listened to Gladys Knight
And my prayers were answered.

Best cure for a hangover:
Take your clothes off
In a thick rain.
Best cure for you:
Cigarette burns
And John Coltrane.


I do not know you.
In the panic of my ignorance
I have sought to trap you,
To press my kiss as you pass.

Forgive me.


a b-girl from Brazil
laughs with her eyes
like polished coal
writes down the name of a club
she used to dance for in Vicenza.
I tell her I’m a material girl
and it will cost her 10 euro.
she sparks me up a Marlboro
says we all have our problems.


do you remember
small winds
like soft music
on your face?

In the slow dark
Did your heart skip
By the river?

Do you remember
The hard earth,
The cold laughter
Of the rain?

The ghosts
And the whisky,
Frog shadows
In the puddles?

Do you feel
Warm still
By the friendly fire
Lips wet with beer
Under the song of the stars?

I remember your
White smile
Quiet in the sunlight;
Love’s dance
Without movement…..


say something
let your eyes melt
your quiet arrogant lips
cut like a bitch

my throat is on fire
I had to pay a chick to talk to me
Woke up in the toilet
choking on my own spit.

you know
I was

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