If you like the book, tell your friends. If you don’t like it, tell your enemies.
Nothing is happening. Like a computer chip “doing nothing at N million times per second.” Oh, I’m writing poems though. So that’s something. Locked down and very down. Meanwhile, here is a testcard.
Summer doesn’t come round again
Because no two summers are the same.
If you’re waiting for love to revisit
The parks and sofas and cars,
They’re gone – under concrete,
Crushed and melted down, landfill.
No, summer won’t come round again,
Look forward to the unborn,
Look backward to the long gone.
In winter, don’t wish your life away.
There will be another season
For you, there will be a new day.
The mile-high club is grounded.
Sand dunes on that beach are in tier four.
There are cobwebs in the public toilets.
(Mind you, there always were.)
The back row of the flicks is nixed.
Wake up little Susy, it’s over, we’re dead.
You can look at it one of two ways.
You can say there’s sodden paper
On the ground
Sunlight shines on one side
Of the weed-grown back lane
Behind the shopping parade.
A smell of paint thinner is in the breeze
And the corner of an outdated poster
On a gable billboard
Opens like a door.
Our supple living green has turned to paper.
Rusty, soon-to-be shadows wander around.
The rushing south-westerly is a friend,
saying anyway it’s time to blow this town.
Autumn rain darkens terracotta tiles
to match the rotting leaves, tones down
white eaves, redbrick walls and gables,
soaking pavements from beige to brown.
Even the clouds, leading my way
at dusk, back down this road in Harrow,
kiss goodbye to pearlescent yesterdays,
thinking, echoing only woodsmoke.