God knows we shouldn't be here
In the fog of those smiles
The paunch of the trip-wire stares
And the huddle cramp of those soft
Dim grey nights
Two characters in search of their author.

I am getting nothing from the stocky
Winks of the bed springs
The whiskey wheeze
Of the plumbing
The chiselled bullet scars
Of the neon night-life
It's like being back in the cemetery
Of that island you could never pronounce
The gruff-voiced cap doff
Half closed eyes
Flared nostrils
Three day old chipped
Nail paint digging into the soft
Glass of leftover wine.
Those pale little feet creeping along the wood-stain
Sand, dried doped dead grass waving
Adoringly at your toes.

I smoked silently in the cold damp bed
Perched against the grand old boulder
Sleep replacing dream replacing sleep.

The pillow is cold
My head beats turgid
great drum scales
there is no-one to beat upon
no-one to crumple in my
rough salty palm
my tears are fresh water
my breath shudders over
a suspended-fourth.

God knows we shouldn't be here
With damp patch walls
And naked piping ribbing
At the belly of the boundary.

God knows we shouldn't be here
Locust orchestra choking on the Bowery
Aria. Chicken bones and wine stains
Flecked around like the tombstones
At the burial ground of every day gone.
We should be warm
Ice tip toed
Hair bright and straw
You smoking softly
Ashtray upon my chest
Your cheek upon my chest
Your dark edged eyes blinking
Listening to Jane B
Anywhere
Here even.

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