Air like dust, a paste that collects at the back of the throat
in the belly of the Emerald City. Catch the first train out,
aircon wind, dry you like a biscuit, cooked in the sun through
glass. Today we jump back through the sky-hole, London to Poland,
sucking on recycled wind, the breathes & dead skin of thousands.
The nuclear glare of another duty free microwaving us from
the inside out. A writhing mass, a jungle, a perfumed car crash,
trudging obediently through the haunted house of another hard sell
airport assault course. I’m sat here on the back step listening
to corn ripen, breathing clean air, feeling real wind on my skin,
feeling good. There’s a carpark at the back of a Polish hotel,
a patch of grass next to a fountain, a fire escape or even that
most luxurious of hotel facilities ..a window that opens!
That’s where you’ll find me, expelling the dirt, the dust, the
dead skin from the back of my throat, missing Rick.