Moorgate rains ethanol fluid
turns the mourning out of earth
where I wander staked out for
scatological rites of all nations
under corporate umbrellas
staked out for flesh of welded indices
in multiple deprivations,
staked out like a charred linnet buff
burning for burnings sake
NCP London clay
bellum mouth runs around
the deregulated Square Mile
Roman city boundaries its ‘Corporation’
65,000 cubic metres of soil taken
for more Bronze long-limbed hares
& CLC veneers
elected representatives
its arcane
Common Councilmen,
milk-paled Aldermen,
sallow sheriffs
& Lords from Medieval guilds
a jasmine flower
stuck behind your ears;
air-kissing the profoundest carrion
IF THERE’S A HELL,
I’VE LIVED TO SEE IT
jack-knifed the bend of a hockey stick
an act of revenge against society
perfumes bloody naked warmth
into the sand-drag
that blows Tbilisi rose
off pleasant ayres.
The Office Group’s unique ‘club’ environment
in the evening light
descends city quarter
a greater & emptier lease
the regeneration scheme has stolen
our municipal chairs
serving as a circuit breaker,
cursing the light
on rake thin
low resolution mirrors
an access threshold
damp wet-winged brooding
bin-bags & asked;
‘why’d you keep here?
survived to a little force,
like tar & this is fucked roadmap?
filing starred to desist
a portcullis to roses curved
in burning words truest,
when in warbling unrest
– especially at night,
when you can’t see
hypertrophied apartment blocks
rolling over occasionally sublime.
