if i could press the crêpe sweet sweep where your eyes meet your tongue i would

Can you say you miss a place like a lover?

Then if then I can say the Thames wends its way through my waking, 

and even the thought of a Heath roll ramble brings high hearts to my beating soul, 

some drunk Camden shit-camera red-stripe abandon fills 

the clavicle I left on Finchley rd when I scrambled so far north 

I forgot my poppy-seed inebriate scares and left 

that hated Dollis Hill-scape, all mold walls and 10quid whiskey but 

I found - tucked in Hampstead woodlands, between rabbit forts and acid

Break up trips - some part of that ancient deep and beating place that was then if for me

A scene engineered to let you slip between it

Winging along a rush-walled city, sliding and sloughing and seeking

My own related anatomy

I'm not there when it happens,
I pass by later to see red
and brick and rubble
much later actually
there's already a shrine of sorts
a bus-shelter shape, not even
half-filled
with tacs, the odd photos, a shoe -
these people three, I don't recognise them
it was the thing not the people
that fell, but when it fell and
as it fell more than bodies got
crushed

In which Carson unties my tongue...

“I'm not explaining this right. What happened was this. There were these beautiful feelings and loose little pleasures inside me. And this woman was something like an assembly line for my soul. I run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?”
~ Carson McCullers - 'A Tree, a Rock, a Cloud'

a night without

a night without
a slide back through time, to a peach-fizz yesterday bereft of cymbals and carnival-seeking
it's a hollow half-pillow hug and a curl not quite the right circumference
a Magellan of the daylight to map my restlessness
and in the swelter a brief fly singed between a black plane
beyond a river not meant for swimming
and a here when found, a trial