The Canal Knows

-


I walked from the car.  
I was fly-tipping the 
Contents of my head 
Onto the towpath.
And then I decided 
To listen to the whispering 
Traffic from the flyover.
Dissonant notes and
Drifting motes.
Fermata
In the heat-haze.
I joined the dots for a while. 

As I walked beside 
The stillness, I traced 
A liquorice line, 
Trickling through the veins 
Of the city. 
A prickling cloud
Of midges
Trembled in the
Tension of cracked 
Wing mirrors.

The manspread of pylons 
Played snakes and ladders 
With the long grass,
Their power-stance loomed 
over scrapyards. 
I followed a fading 
Hopscotch path
That led me through 
Stagnant pools 
In sad factories,
The skeletons of warehouses 
And rows of drunken locks.

A clearing in the bushes
Revealed an aviary 
Of cans and bottles.
A meth nest, 
Best left alone.
The owner, A bird-man 
With laminated eyes
Was screaming at the sky,
‘They're frying up 
The sea life centre.’

I slipped away
Through weeds yielding 
To the mid-day breeze.
Secret machines were
Sleeping by the disused 
Railway track,
Deluded in their dreams
Of reactivation.

A pair of geese eyed me
Warily. They were guarding
Their little pool, 
Celebrating
Their union in oil slicked
Water. I held up my camera.
They hissed and chased me off.

Before me stood a signal box, 
Pebbledashed with pigeon shit.
A serrated transition
Down a twisted copper wire. 
A broadcast to the 
Corpses of 
Corroded car bodies. 
I heard the music in 
The echoes of the basin,
Caressing curving concrete
Spaghetti intertwined.
The tunnel whispered:

Have I seen you here before?
  





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Ring Road

-
I watch from under The shade of the fly-over. The ring road squeezes the city Into prolapse. The sky closes for business And the clouds fold over, Like a restless sleeper's duvet. A sun-flare splits the grey fade Of the post-rush hour queue. I don’t think that the commuters Can see the heard approaching. A hot breeze whispers Through skeletal trees. I can see the horses racing Up the dual carriageway. The Ikea sign is melting, and Flaming hooves are pounding Over the blackened bones Of roadkill and exhaust pipes. The harras rages Through the heat haze shimmer. Their manes are ablaze. With unstable diamond eyes And the stars in their teeth, They unleash Beautiful incineration On to the idle traffic. Flashes of orange and red caress Idle wing mirrors. I see the fire-heard Race through the barrier and Leap across the fly-over. Mirrored windows kiss The glare of a new Temporary sun. There will...
Read more

The Sea Wall

-
I take a late-night walk through the park, where Trees are hanging in a frail parliament. They lean in for a late-night session Their photocopied leaves are trembling At the thought of autumn alopecia. I try to imagine the speed of tree-thoughts. How long do they take to penetrate? And are they articulated only By green or gradients of red and brown? I can’t tell, in the amnesia of moonlight. A shopping bag is snagged by brittle hands And held up, beseechingly to the stars That glaze the hardened September sky.
Read more

Ishtar

-
Ishtar is on the subway.  Her face is repeated  Through layers of torn posters. Her talking heads are chanting  Sex and war through sacred boom-boxes. She reigns in New York City, From uptown lofts, to the  Downtown candy store. Ishtar’s smiling faces sometimes  Float through the turquoise  Haze. Her teeth are chattering ticket stubs. They spell out a new code.  You see it in layers of dead flyers,  Pez wrappers and graffiti covered trains. A manual from the underground To slay the Philistines. Ishtar gifts you the city in  A paintbox. You draw black lines That define the barriers between  Uptown commerce and downtown  Creativity. And then, so effortlessly, You reveal the anatomy of the city, With a brush-stroke and a cloud Of weed smoke. Ishtar shows you colours  Through New York city rain.  Taxis queue in yellow exodus, Carrying you from gallery to gallery...
Read more