Thursday, 2 July 2015

And night flowers grow

A blackened English church
Spikes a devilish tower,
And injects the poor cloud
From the dark womb of the city.

In the church they're doing twelve-steps,
And yet still nobody
Finds a friend in Jesus
Any more.

It’s the curse of Center Point.

Jesus and Jesusette, a divinely entangled couple of hippies,
An owl on their one bare shoulder,
Like ancient gods waltzing around,
They sprinkle stardust
In the dark of boarded-up mansions
So the tall and gaunt, alcoholic grande dame
Awakens an anger that’s been sleeping
And it runs, and sparks up revenge.

"My character deranged my mother",
The foul breath of old ills
Hangs in the damp.

"Would you like some gingerbread?"
"Everywhere I go, food is offered.
I wish that I could eat my own feelings".

Crunchy rejection
Fried frustrated dreams
Bad luck, Saint Giles,
Your soul is spilt.

I’m sitting in a lounge here
That’s darkened, and abandoned,
In a place that was cursed.
I recall the old Gallows.

It’s a strange ghost, this alcohol.
For a heartbeat, Gin Lane rises beside you.
Like a pop-up window of the brain,
Your path was hung with over-crowded Hogarths,
You stroked a dog from another century,
The glass trembled,
You nearly made it,
But the thought slips,
Like a helium balloon.

A nurse whispers
“Here is your medication”
Your life is derelict,
Like the house you sleep in.

"On a hot day,
I would love to go urban-tanning with you
On the roofs, and then spend an enchanted night
Jumping fences into public gardens"

Follow the little white stones
That I threw along the way
They glow in the moonshine
Like little seeds
And night flowers grow,
Sway in the wind like spectral nymphs
And guide your way to a new land

 my debut novel, Cured Meat

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