London pt.3, London pt.5 & London pt.7

London pt.3

So set in each individual directive;
Moving and flowing like a traffic of unstoppable realities -
There is no time in this place ruled by ticks and by tocks.
Its ‘who’s who’ is inextinguishable - an endlessness of
Faces, spectacles, headphones, tattoos, crutches.
Each is in motor-survival as one feels
One cannot make it to the next stop.

It’s not easy bein’ green.

No place for a headache, nor a heatwave to stifle;
But for strokes, of oars on the Thames, at
Kingston and Molesey, where there is a love that
Will not tire. London’s love for me. In an eight
On London’s river-sea; Cyril Power’s acrylic
Lights are our eyes, this night, and next, and last
Night, filled with tears, joyous and devoted.

Its massiveness builds, with girders, the skeleton
Of my heart, and you become my lifeblood, London,
Beating in your scull, propelling some serene
Restlessness, in which; I want to protect you from all
Pushes, all shoves, all anxiousness, and all there’s to be
Afraid of. Of this osmosis, used to evading nomination;
My London has a name now: her name is Isabel, my love.



London pt.5

They cram electricity into every spare corner
And crevice and, as beats, TV screens flash, pummel,
Pummel: ‘one, two, three-four: one, two, three-four;’
In the mechanical rhythm of the mechanistic age;
An analogue superstructure digitally brave. Nether,

As tethers my memory of the city: I am always under-
Ground. Stop. Tubular, as are the conduits of memory,
Are the tunnels that run under it: the city, the mind; as our
Electricity swells to the surface, as if it were Basinski’s
Music spiralling up spiritually. Hypostasis of life!

Sprawlingly. People, people, everywhere! And each, in
Need of the toilet, now and then; some imagination, of
All the latrines of London, how many? Of all the every-
Things of London, how many, how many? Bricks! How
Many? A one-brick wall, and as tall, stands yesterday’s life,

In rurality: the countryside, narrow shires! Green expanse,
Hedge-scarred; outback and oft backward; but loud as combine
Harvesters are, still, lies soft and soundly, by contrast, their crop;
Tranquil in some field afar, before the chop, then they’re fed to
Hungry Londoners, how many heads of corn? - A reversal, as it is

In Eagleton, of city and country, as places of holidaying and
Labour; agriculture bowing to mass production, and its rush
Escaping to the provinces’ still. Still, it’s London for I. For I
Is there. Where must we go to? I ask of K. Why must we
Always escape? Can we not live, us, in London, once?

For there is youth there, in colour. Vitality too, behind smogs
And grey, but a great grey, a healthy grey, veined with black
Mourning rails, and red and yellow lines many a road along.
The road I live on, is its, the A4 Great West to London! To
London! Let’s. Our ordinance maps such a pilgrimage.

For there they cram electricity where electricity is there, every-
Where a wire! Sparking on the mosaic tiles that reflect pyro-
Technics in a fireworked testimony to forward, forward! The
Streets and houses and Houses and under-streets are one there,
They’re great there in their great there! Vortices of English manifestation.



London pt.7

One time for all time, now a vanishing point
On a pointless horizon; one for all and all for
One, we were always ready, sharing everything
With fun; now our truce traduces south, a part
Of London gone; lone don left; as bereft as when
Alastair McGee went from Derry Hill; never to see
Again, my friend, and rock, to be lost. To what?

A love/hate song cycle; this relationship with the
Big city, sublime always; at times overpowering, else-
When, awe-inspiring. To have lost Kunal to its exiling
Dénouement, now what? We’ll move in, we’ll move out
Always criss-crossing paths, but missing our route. You
Promethean Rimbaud! What is this juncture/rupture? You
Once-poet; I shall not be written to for money and books

About tusks. London, inharmonious all-encompasser, to
Be met with on its own terms. Lofty heights, haughty
Dispositions… My baby sleeps, under her U.F.O. Slowly it
Regulates slumber’s cycles; your R.E.M. a synchronicity to me,
Yet others out of time; your mobile-like spacecraft flashing
Above, you’re all tucked up; all tucked up in London,
Under my supervision, abroad. To whence must you go:

To whence you must go, as I get there a step too late, and on
The wrong foot, adieu, and good luck. For the city, salud, to
The city, cheers, to you. What is truth? A question of faith, a one
Of which, I asked in your monolith. One man take the church,
Soaked in wine… this is not the time, suffice to say, of two-thousand-
And-seven, Mr. Sutton, don’t comment. That’s where I met the kid
That is city: London, you chic and kitsch, take me: tomorrow is

Already here.