The Creative Class

Poetry

I’m coughing hot gouts of spite through coffee-smeared teeth, melting gums
And panic breaths like worn cushions
Floating.
Pumped by a wild-eyed
Ram rutting in an empty field
Seething with dry grass and dust
Of dirty Northern Line smog poisoning
Rich and moist air languished,
My veins run epileptic.
Too long did I cower in the darkness of my flat slurping
Too long legs crooked and desperate
Stirred only to remain bed-ridden:
Should I now, they each ask, spasm with joyous energy
To be kept dormant by the music of endless snores?

Neither find solace in the polite crowds’
Crush and thud of foot cracking;
Instead, desirous, straining knuckles
And tarnished vocals, muttering death
Prayers for all the inconsiderate sun
Rushing by in linen glow angelical
Gusty, sweeping stillness away with bright
Blinding calls. These streets are bleak
For such yellow daylight, pierced with shards
Of colour, is another sort of cloud.
Only the spectral sunset permits open-eyed
Revelation to the alcohol-ear, computer-tongue

Vampiric young of Southbank’s equinox bower.
We shall breathe better in the quietude of night
Enjoying the sealish breeze skulking along the Thames,
Sneezing ecstatic toward the skaters’ undercroft,
Refuge of the sacred scriveners and bold rebel
Weeds. Serpentine air, we drink. Muchly we
Celebrate in the oorah eheu cosa nostrum moulah
Moulah cacophony of speakers, players, vocal
Traders making their evening pride vertebrate
Amongst their chosen brothers and sisters.
This is the world earned. Which day-waker

Would dare deny our nocturnal love understands
Nothing in spite of their years following such desires
To suburban babes crying for the love left in past
Encounters and locked out when the neighbourhood
Boards up for the dark, lest saucy petulant youthes
Pass demanding liquor and experience. You
Remember that time, I suppose, quiet elders
Writing silent poems. You remember the sixties
That left you fifty years long and distant
As though those times made up your true life entire?
In my, in our, moon-lit eloquence, we enjoy that reality
Drink-drenched and tripping over familiar feet but
Needing, heart-felt, seeking and so no, we shall never
Be finished for ten years until we, biologically,
Perhaps, seek our own suburbia, shitting ourselves

At shadows. A few though, the elegy of this diatribe
Screech, remain the rebellious self-lacerators who
Know the velvet of sackcloth, who feel the steak
Of corn, the lab in the synagogue and church,
Students of the feather-pen scratched and bleeding
Lively inks on less practical papers to be smoked.
Your idols. Your paragons and paradigms. The people
You base your imaginations on live far more stable
Dream-lives in mirable creation, endymion to live,
Greeting the horizon as carnal lords shepherding hops,
Malts, fields of finery in baroque colouration so as to
Taste the minerals of their lordly peasant lives.

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