Kitschpoesie: London

Quickly written in Charing Cross Station.

On a liver wound 

I saw pass

The Great Star of Africa

Which hexes the hands

That hold the scepter 

Which works wonders

On a ringed crowd. 

530 carats of dark countries. 

In Cape Town 

I saw a thousand constellations revolve 

Around my fair daughters.

On my lawn

The silkworm silently

Weaves a tunic 

And a ball-gown;

Chrysalids are fixed 

On the painted ponies

And the moon

Shows her bum. 

And there the sea is

Darling-eye blue

And there I sit and wait

For my mistress’ news

I sit and wait in a wicker chair

And count all the schooners

And paint their wakes 

In my hands. 

In the tube my eyes

Fall on the ground

And are trapped in a network

Of dress shoes

Here everybody is clammy

Here everybody is tired

Here everybody accepts

A sunken cost. 

The sun plays peekaboo

And us, the frightened babes

Wait for the relief

His face gives

When the cloud parts. 

I WON’T MIND THE GAP

well we shouldn’t have 

shouldn’t have done that whole bloody

east india business 

now my granddaughter pays back

by having to share the streets

with the one

my whip cracked

There is a teaparty

And you are not invited

There is a war to be fought 

But we sure won’t show

When the gunpowder 

Ratchets up. 

Take pity upon Charles I’s head

It still lays there

All stiff and blue

And nobody will chat it up

For fear it stains

Another clock

please we

want to keep

these rotten genes

WELL IT’S EASY TO JUDGE ISN’T IT?!