Friday, 1 February 2013


Fitzroy Street of flat-packed shops and cutout people
juxtapose without the echoes of their footsteps or speech.
I can concentrate on how I lift my knees or place each foot
to shift my gravity, making a cyclist veer and whizz close to my ear

He can’t touch me. I’m not here

Nor are we all, unless fashion compels us to adopt its visibility,
becoming re-born at an age so ripe it would do somebody good to
give us a kiss; don’t miss this chance, ladies. Bite me now, this instant,
or forever keep your peace....
....too late, suckers, I’m around the corner. Traffic lights four square,
the cafe CB2. Remarkable how incognito I can be, fluidly negotiating kerbs,
members of the young mum’s mafia, and clusters of alcoholics

There is neither warning of the absence seizure that comes next, nor memory
of the street I walked along to come home. Only post-ictal confusion

And now I sit, plastic crates taking up the legroom under the table where
my i-Mac waits to be re-booted. The Apple logo has been bitten.
Was it Eve? Why was she not there to enjoy me in Fitzroy Street?

Hey Eve! I’m still willing to be led astray,
even though you missed me earlier today

Perhaps I will listen to Mozart’s Concerto in D for Two Pianos,
take my medication, and set the Nokia’s alarm for eight, day five

Yep. Decision made.

No comments:

Post a Comment