Liking a song, now

by


here in Algeciras it feels good to be – like –

perched on the wrist of the world at night

 

in a grey hotel. Our balcony’s –

like – held up by the Pillars of Hercules

 

but below unconcerned with time it’s us

but precarious  the couple we – like – sussed

 

out ages ago still drinking tequila

and talking all night  there we are made o’

 

glass   we refract everything we know

through the tint and salt of por qué coño no

 

sarcasm cuts as cut-lemons cut

not like light slicing a stain-glass heart…

 

but now, it feels good to be – like –

perched on the wrist of the world at night

 

in a grey hotel reminded of a time or a song

and tomorrow’s first fingers circling moist upon

 

the lip-stick-smeared wine-glass rim;

we like a song we used to sing

 

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Meeting Me There Later

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you were always meeting me there later:

by the time you arrived at Grand Centraal

there were too many Dutch angles – bicycles

cars, trams – and buildings with hooks. The canal

 

was already oil – a trick of densities –

in the lamp-light: Vermeer o’ milk. Van Gogh

o’ a thousand candles. Frank. I’ll meet you

wherever light’s allowed. But the blood-light

 

o’ a well-wrought bridge? The darker paint

of later beneath a neon sign:

pink ol’ Roxy muck o’ fuzz in a head full

of hard lines? The heavy greyness of the dreg-light?

 

Grand Centraal! When you arrive it’s way too late!

I’m mixed up in shadows that just won’t wait!

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