I Think UR Dumb

I Think UR Dumb

I was close to saving her, London,
told everyone about it, preached
her merits to Argentinean girls in secret
canals one has to jump security gates to reach.

We had a fight not in the least clean,
pulling each the others hair, sleeping on her rooves ,
she evicted me from my squats,
poisoned me with fermented apples,
spied me most moments with the ugliest
eyes ever, spiked eyelashes, black bubbles.
I knew she couldn’t watch 400 televisions at once,
even too sinister for a plague town that burns
down, labours 8 year old boys in it’s soot.

So I rode the rat tunnel tube in rush hour
children scraped out of clay in 1863,
long after the rats moved on.
Wrote on the glass in permanent ink,
messages like “I think UR dumb”, Stooges lyrics,
no one saying shit- her eyes blind.

Keep wanting to quote it-
“I thought everything would be different after me”
I throw myself on the fire.

Found a free warm room and beer
but the aging cockney hotelier keeps blubbering
about his dead mother, his cancer,
screams at his lover, wants to show me his dick.
She sent cocky cads to feel up my woman in her sleep-
I rammed down doors on Borough High St
with a young Pole and changed the locks.

Hackney
is not
Dead

Yet.

The squat party, last round.
I don knuckle dusters made of flowers- bitch,
it was all reckless beauty.
Pogo to the punk shouting “cunt”
rejoice in the samba- ten drummers
in the crowd-whistles, that anarchist girl,
feathered mask, bare midriffshe
flicks her hair.
the wall states “we are ALL Zapatistas!”
she flicks her hair.

Many of the people there WERE my lovers,
hugging a mad South African screams-
“I FUCKING LOVE YOU YOU CUNT!”
Best night of my life- purple
daisy bruises round the Queen’s eye.

Cocaine tickles the little hairs in my nose.
Cider sits in my gut.
Got a gram of MD and ate it all
with wondrous abandon.

The party ends in a fight.

This is as close I will come to death without dying.
Intense sinking blunt floating
It was all ketamine, heart stop-starting.
This must be what they mean by K-hole.
Can’t move any muscles, mouth, legs,
vomit falling all about the place, drunk puppet
words drip like a jawless zombie on smack.
Walk- collapse- walk- collapse.
Pretty Irish voice, movement,
“can you see my finger love?”
but I can’t talk.
Desperate for the safety of the mud

I make it, closing anvil weighted eyelids.
“Come to the light”, but there is no light,
blackish, and I am pulled thru and thru.
London, she is beckoning me out of life.
It is nice, I think of Steven, My Grandfather,
at least after the pain there is black and floating
warm, everything hugs me all at once,
I know there’s nothing to be afraid of there.
Back in Hackney, there is,
someone is robbing me now.

This is not real, this is a sleeping pill,
this is chlorophyll nap.
I will stay with the shit with the filth.
I’m not going yet.
I have no idea how I got back to Brixton
8 hours later , busses, trains, dreams.

We had a fight not in the least clean,
pulling each the others hair, breaking and entering,
5 days of heart palpitations, spitting in faces.

I thought everything would be different after me,
still can, still here,
plenty of love to make.