stories from the city

a flu of words
a few months ago the streets breathed words
the pavement bred sounds
the city seemed to whirl around me and
I was a woman possessed

in the morning in front of the mirror
I’d converse with my wild eyes
great things are in store—great things will happen today

at night, in my head
sentences formed like ready-made pictures
if I were an artist my canvases would have taken over
miles—miles

spreading expanding growing
like a disease

I caught something somewhere down the line
a flu of words


doing the best you can
every morning the Scissor Sisters shout out from the radio:

someone thinks
we need to hear about our mothers
upon waking

flush toilet – splash water down there, on face, under armpits
dry off dry off then
coffee, cereal – sometimes sun through the kitchen window
then jack her up on cheap champagne
let the good times all roll out

the radio reminds you to call your mother
keep her up to date about
what’s up what’s up what’s up
in this crazed city where your thoughts get swayed by radio songs
and the advice of people you’ve just met.

feeling like a full-grown man you
unload your boxes,
get keys from the landlord who
smells funny and walks barefoot
he speaks with an accent – but then

everyone in London does.

oh how appalled your mother would be:
all the foreigners all the foreigners – but you’re a foreigner too

call up the radio make an announcement:
hey, hey, I’m living on my own
then listen to the dj say “good on you, mate
good on you here’s a song for you
and for all you others out there away from your mamas

for all of you who’ve discovered
there’s not much you can be certain about – that
all you can really expect are
accents, yes,
and weirdos weirdos everywhere”

and every morning while you
breakfast among cigarette stubs
surrounded by rolling tobacco and
mugs of old old tea
in the flat she luckily hasn’t seen

she’ll call
and then you can tell her
“Mama, they’re singing about you on the radio” and
“Mama, hey, Mama, I’m doing the best I can.”


autumn street
it’s hard to feel poetic here:
night falls quickly –
before you’ve had your
afternoon coffee;
more and more often,
before you’ve even dressed

the woman across the street
pads around all day in dressing gown and slippers –
you know because there’s not much to do
besides look outside your window
if you had a lace curtain, you’d be twitching it by now
if you didn’t look in the mirror, you’d think you had grey hair

it’s hard not to feel the chill here
it enters the body quickly
in novels the morning light is blue –
but you prefer to wake much later
when it’s turned yellow and comes through the window screaming
making no allowances, forgiving exactly nothing

the woman across the street
spends a lot of time cleaning
the house must be spotless by now –
but you can’t tell from this far away
nor – as far as you know – can anyone else
only the postman reaches the door: and not even he goes in

it’s hard for anything to happen on this street:
the neighbours shut themselves in too quickly
and though you can only use ‘shut’ in so many ways
they manage to use it and re-use it—
until there’s nothing left:

shut yourself off – shut yourself up – shut yourself down.
shut it, yeah? just shut it – shut your trap shut your face – shut the fucking door, mate
mate, it’s hard to be poetic here – mate, everything is so hard here

the woman across the street
closes the shutters at five
but the telly goes on earlier –
by half-four she will be sitting
on the plastic dustcover of the sofa
hands picking absent-mindedly for the lint underneath

and in that half-hour
there is just enough light
to watch her—
exposed—
silent, waiting for evening—night—then
the next day.


The city once was here
my city needs me,
I like to think

some days I go out and the air hitting my face
is a greeting,
a sigh of relief
‘You’re back,’ it breathes: ‘Oh, finally, you’re back.’

I don’t bother pointing out that
I’ve always been here –
after all, I’ve missed it too.

the city longs for my touch –

when I don’t go out for days
it peers through the windows,
branches reaching –
buildings leaning –

pavement shiny with tears

it’s no use saying ‘tomorrow’ or
‘I’m busy right now’
like a small child wanting to play,
it scuffs its heels impatiently at the door.

poor thing, it hasn’t got skyscrapers –
most of the streets need new tar
broken windows let in the wind whipping
soulless faces walk through swinging doors

can I blame it, then, for trying?
pulling my sleeve:
‘come out to play’

wordless, I slip on my shoes
because without me it will cave
without my trudging, begrudging steps
hunched shoulders, set frown

the back alleys would disappear, the
main roads collapse
leaving only a whisper: ‘the city once was here’