Thursday 8th January

150108

SKY-HOLE & DIESEL:

Essex winter before sunrise & mild. Isolated birdcall,
strange song I never heard before. Two roads leave in
parallel, one West, one East, both into the sky.
Sitting in cabs, listening to drivers recall every detail
of the last time they went where I’m going – at the same time,
sitting in my car alone, engine off, listening to the rain.
I could sleep here all day, curl up, radio turned barely on.
Down there, where sound goes straight into the blood, turns
my skinny jeans to skin, steam fixes this uniform familiar to
my body, wakes me up smelling of milk & biscuit dreams.
Now we’re leaving, widening the circle, this connection,
this fruit of the seed of our union. The person you need to be
you’ll find on the rails of California thrift stores,
as mine waits for me on the streets of Berlin.
You leave through the sky-hole, I fill the tank again with diesel.
Did you see me looking up, laughing beneath the floodlights?

Listening to Motorpsycho again – ‘DEMON BOX

(K)

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