Every direction has its attendant devil and their safaris weren't conducted on the bosses' time. For what they were hunting is certainly never tame. And, for the poor, is usually illegal.
Thomas McGrath
Under orbitals single rung
London’s tourtière
little pieces blessed Muggletonians
found in bright reams
crossing onto black tarmac
& songing each tilted
for ears dispatch crowned out over
the last jarring expansion jolt
this peculiar English heresy
fulminated against the law
diamond grinding in the mulberry
weeping for Paddingtons Speight,
the area where a body hanged
for six days pervades eaves
in my memory ornate terracotta ridges
British Transport Police
the buzz of the office
& towers steep slate,
its four-hipped from below
a straggling place
to sit on burning metal corrugations
teeth on bars on ledges
for a sundown leadenness
which London Stone
privately owned publicly rended
you can sit on what withered
green timber of pub yokes
what dotty oak & thin staves
flat hoops rolled over bluebells,
poppies & lupins of meum & tuum
I stand on a very narrow ledge
of typhoon Butterfly World,
safeguarding insects
to commit the pogo
out of necessity under orchard boughs
falling to its dapple grey sky
built to canalise a bad country
When will it turn? to good splendor
when will the price of it
come down? on Old Kent Road
not dissected to rind out
broadbacked in a circle
of merged plastics.
