at The Goose across from Wood Green Station
£1.50 a pint, Slovakians and Bulgerians and Polish and North
Londoners and a man in the corner climbing a ladder
in the overheard compartments
of the mind
what has lifted
what has shifted
in the supreme footfall, in the swagger
of alternate tendencies: sparks
of the masculine dream dragon: can’t
get at them, these wordzones, muddled
tendrils grabbing my limbs
what you said what you said is a miner’s strike
on the piss man, need to get sucked
in to just juiced up: scenes are spoken
into: Charlie couldn’t hold it, that’s
bet UHR, looks like the channel switcher, switch
hitter, open blondes and open evenings with evening
jeans and evening dresses and Polish mindbombs
what did you wager? Your mammalian glands
on the lank, not primarily for safety still
need to come home to give birth, in the choked
out energy spurts of grace in mad cities, in the anti-
poetic underword scenes
accumulate on the primal verge.
I’m getting younger. Is this a double or a single? It’s not
a dull one is it? What else do you do? How do you do?
What can you wager? You should see
her last performance.
In my cartoon dreams with cartoon erection there is larvae flowing
down the moutainside of some remote thatched hut village
and a lumpy Polish giant to burn for the good of the economy,
the good of the nation, the complete abduction of senses.
Not a martyr’s dream but a mime
with the personal, the real is a mongrel shaking.
Out of waste: out of rubble: out of conversations with self
on Easyjet flights from Katowice to London to Belfast to London
I’ve lost the frontman, the stunt double, the greasy
L of the last good lube is still slithering, my pontification is asswine,
greased up my mind is swelling,
mad drills of the infinite mind how you like me now
mad cow, mad moutains and mole hills.
In the transgressions of memory a boy with a blond
mop and Jesus complex is stuck in the transmission
crackling behind the screen, behind the scenes:
selves will be removed
by the police