0.06 am

the night shrugs off what silence it had procured minutes ago;

the street edge shifts; it's noises are relevant ice to sleep:

hollow woody sighs beneath tyres thrown back by tenements;
globules of wax and oil no longer resist their fall and

make their way from flat roof to ear,

roads fizzing, cool, wet;
a delivery boy creaks homeward on a moped the size of a matchbox;

there is nothing awkward about his age;

only sleep can deter his winning streak, placate his tough losses.
meantime, all is as was -

sharp sounds and brief liquid suggestions - faintly macabre;

hanging in the air; as jet: impenetrable, dark

Battersea 20/10/07

The alabster face of Maggie T in Guildhall - heavyweight marble statue of Thatcher presiding over all royalty, in there among the gowned historical portraits, more substance to her memory than all the other, still the ego moves - look at you; the rift made corporeal in stone, the stare of disastrous self-belief - wrap her up in clinging PVC, stick her with safety pins and a million hard questions - someone mentions 'gonzo' and you run in your glass coffin Maggie, don't you? -

and Queen Victoria Beckham is equally deluded by self-illusion - yet she doesn't really exist anymore and in that realisation has also begun to fall apart, a process of discovery -

street urchins at the window watch as it happens -

I wonder if two illusions make a harsh reality?

but (lesson to be learned) the city and the times are brutal - brutal light, brutal alleyways defined by yet more broken glass and idiot subterfuge; haste, ignorance, the grotesque: literally faceless men advertising suits, bizarre (is it meant to be post-mod irony?)

A notion in a book cover, a notion of peace, rises up through the audacity of it all, an exemplar of honesty -

Tailgaters try to make jokes of their actions, but in the end are always and only the worst kind of fools -

Ricochet debutantes and etiquette graduates turn the heads of the accountants amid the frayed activity of Devonshire Square, the streams of stepping, the readily abused time and motion of it all.

The wherewithal of liars.

You walk home in the middle of the night from it all without your shoes, you left them in a bar somewhere near Liverpool Street, drunk to fuck, with the noise of bully boys and serenaders mixed up in you and you keep repeating that the London Dungeon has a hilarious answerphone message, try it and see -

Guildhall, 17th October 2007

EC2

Hanging cats of the city, prevaricators of the weekend, groundhogs, sleazy suited groundhogs whose pink and blue pastel shirts and Gieves & Hawkes manicured presences are everywhere tonight, wavering before the threat of the weekend – Friday is their desolation day and it will be drowned in ale – welcome to the measure dome – the streets are full of talking in riddles and the bottom of the glass will ne’er come too soon, Felix, ready for another – upon which they shall ridicule the radical, standing on the week’s last hilt and seeing how deep the blade of it will go, stockbroker’s metaphorical suicide – the throng heaves a sigh of collective relief, devouring the high standard of Leadenhall and Axe, the banners, the caustic joust of architecture just there – and they are sweating blood money and relishing deep down deviant behaviour that they’ll never be a part of – that’s the way the City echo falls, fat echo, rounded echo, echo of the drunk – there’s one: pig-eyed nausea at Monument, unsure if he’s on the market floor and waving for stock or hailing a cab, swaying in the mystic wind of Axe, listening for a pin to drop, attempting to divine salary and hoping upon hope for his dusty frisson of lust with Rebecca perhaps (if she ever returns the call), she’s a peach (I jest but only just) – the infinity ward, the ever rolling static of the City of L on a Friday evening, the clocks still rolling for time-bombs and the ancient city’s behemoth waking slowly beneath the cobble stones and chrome crossroads – all second-hand rumour and bleeding heart agony is spilling from suit sleeves, the fear/ache of loneliness at the back of the mind whispers, knowledge of irredeemable time passing in routine upon routine, out into the street, following the drainage path of the old Fleet, along gutters and into drains, between cobble stones, rippling at Leadenhall and through Bevis Mount – by the end of the night one figure has staggered all the way to Southwark Bridge and is spasmodically thrusting arms and legs out into the air, his suit amazingly unruffled, head already sore and he’s hoping upon hope that tomorrow is Monday for fear that he may have to wake up to himself if it’s not -

crawling back to guitar licks, some bastard flood soaks me with gutter water, fine time - onlooking details break into laughter - chrome gargoyles and the like

bullishit is always bullshit, even when it's dressed up as a compliment

smell of citrus on a bus like calm before blue shade

West London Fix

Colonel Ivanov is placing his reflection carefully in the river at Albert Bridge. Someone has brought him back and he has no idea who or why. One minute he was sleeping, perhaps dead, in a quiet place near Kiev, the next he was smoking a cigar and bracing himself against London's October rain. Sweet, forlorn Mandy still sings in his memory. Mr. Stephen is painting canvasses, fending off and ignoring the inevitable conclusion of his pecadilloes - arrest, charge, imprisonment. The mews are quieter now than they were twenty years ago.
Funny thing - Ivanov realises he hasn't aged.
Blessed, lucky. Is Uncle Joe watching over him? Everything, they say, is to be continued.
This is Ivanov's chance then to be seduced by the city once again.
The common glow of gold on the Thames. The careening - what's that? - green parakeets in the treetops. They weren't here before, not then, not in the view from the Rolls or the hired Bentley.
And the short, rumbling regeneration of the rails.
To be continued then . . .

We Are All Janis Joplin

C is drinking rum - intravenously
S is crossing the sea of lust - one way ticket
K knows the days are getting shorter but (go figure) the sun is getting brighter
J is over the guitar player but not his plimsoll's - they rock
N has an envelope that contains just a splinter of moondust
D is living noir
P says diamonds and mirrors are the best illusions a freak can buy
G knows hunger is not a state of mind
R is marching - history is the best defence