away from the crowd, away from the madness of the birds

is it love that you played on me
boiling water on the stove
small, translucent bubbles
impatient to come out
to burst into flowers on your face
get out of my skin
the old woman used to say
“my child, put your hand on your heart
one day
you’ll feel the hotness of your newborn sunrise”
but I’m here
in the gutter of the human solitude
like a wet cat in autumn leaves
in the gutter of the broken branches, dogs run over by cars,
people behind on rent
with keepsakes in wooden boxes and cotton sacks
in the gutter of the love city
overcrowded train stations overrun by sleek rats,
grey skies, leather shoes, broken fingernails
in the gutter of my kind
restlessly tearing off meat
from the bone of a chicken
murdered 3 weeks ago on a quiet field
in a nice, dark barn with knives and pitchforks and dry straw
when clouds were swimming
I’m in the gutter
of lovemaking from the end of days
dripping honey, buzzing queen bees
the waxy sweetness of the tongue
circling,
everything is circling, my hands in yours
I don’t know what to say
how to speak to thunder
my thunder is a she
twirling, twisting, dancing, aching, changing bodies
on high shoes, sometimes colour green, sometimes barefoot
the feeling of rain again

in the gutter
you have terms, conditions, taxes, breadcrumbs
rotting cabbage heads on the riverbank, copper coins
sleep
when the skin doesn’t match the outside
you cut it into pieces in front of a homeless guy on Liverpool Street
he licks your hand
for a cold sandwich and a quarter
the fragments float like a fly in a soup
whenever she keeps her legs tight, he throws her a bone
it don’t matter where you run
the talking man talks to himself
barbaric truths about living and how to get there
about the city roasting in blue flames
fluorescent bottles, green bottles, white cups, metal spoons
angels on trumpets
old men weeping, kissing the earth
they’re the ones
who found my gold in the gutter
sleep

You can, help me to write more. But just you being here…means a lot. :-)