Night shine bound

Back down the million mile road down south again, buildings familiar love, fashionable stones for throwing across the Thames, office fields, floating stocks, driving to the train rythm of city gulls and movement, eager, bored, and feral, but you’ve gotta choose your home…

London-queen of mimetic ceremony silhouettes cornered in pristine rooms, finer than the attire of imagined skin, remembered and felt, classic projected films moving into one line of crowded parade, stepping to and fro, dressed differently every time

The city and i- we head to a shop that puts a crate of beer on my shoulder, and a better drunk than us both asks me for one

I say: “sure man, take one” and i offer him my smoke too, “take it, just made it” we add, “ah! you’re Captain Scarlet!” he tells me as the man sings the theme song and rewards me with a dance.

And sometimes the sickness and poverty of it all helps and its ok tell me that after two breakfasts land down, for a while, and two tumours laugh in an empty car park at the same thing

The name for god always changing, some days a digital word, sometimes a bird stood upon a lamp post at 10:16, the way someone smiles, the science behind welcoming, cancer guns and the engravings on the handle, that you care for more than all the dry sweat night dripping, the kind that paralyses insomnia and rises from your bed outside your mind, again:

That familiar smile.

We won’t be a salary in the morning, we’ll be a Magritte, or a Picasso at the weekend, we’ll stand in front of artists dead and see no difference between lamb, now roasting- and the experiment in seasoning, that you, or I added

There’ll be a non-charging cash point, counting sounds that are lost in chaotic uncares, and if my lights go out at 4am, whilst we’re linked, the vat will at least be made of us

The androgyny burnt climaxing sky line will be clear through the polluted hive line of buildings, we’ll be wearing hooded macks in the rain – sliding between still light and shadow, crossing the intersecting lines of humming traffic and unheard noise we’ll pass without tickets, as they fall from the bridge, and the edge lifts away from our feet

And the rest goes underground, behind ageing tunnel wall of aging graffiti skull – tracks nulled by snow in winter, body late, perspiring – pouring peddle down, response automatic, eyelid better for counting time, than opening eye – synthetic wait for for any fire that is kind, raising corners that blink in false dream

Our seven seeming tied, and untied, bonded, and unbonded, gropes untied with hunger, the sky kicks in the brick walls slaying the hours with calls from strangers and friends indifferent-

One. – two. – three.

Seconds and faces.

(and the city hates slowing down doesn’t (s)he?)

Until its ready that is, the only joke being to wait and drool over corpses and post mortem like thought the place being in your heart and the ever-glow being the same as any love that you feel and the way you need it to take you forward and just let you ride the and forget that its there because I’ll die before I stop acting on my instinct for you the ever-gloom and the skull can unwind elsewhere! Oh the poison that forgets itself if only needing the same formaldehyde to keep it still-

That’ll do.

Perfection is a woman without eyes.

Perfection is a man without limbs.

Perfection is the home that walks you back when the day is yours, and someone elses.

Perfection blinds the crippled mask.

One that fits your birth.

Your death.

All of the damn islands.

All of the damned islands.

Cannot catch us, now.

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