It isn’t Kew you know, though
abundant. A new plant called
Elbow/Arms crushing me on the
pavement at Wall. I kick back,
shouting for ‘some’. For it to appear
to caress; to surface quietly.
On the port is Fred-he has plenty,
a dance with a mate: rather tight
metal in armour-ready to go
beserk in dealings on New York.
Honorary men in black, courting them.
Groping, faltering, longing-hard
at it. A collection of people lock
themselves in Sea Horses.
An escape is planned by the
jetty on Swan Lane. Chaucer visits,
a perfectly understood event.
Colours fill the gloom of Monday.
At Bank, rivalries clash
in little Europe towards Cripplegate.
contacts Erasmus in Paris-surprised
by the response, offering to talk.
Agents arrive to experiment. In
a confused state, we introduce Euros.
‘Do you require wine, sir?’ Our
with this talk of contract, history,
‘a little something for the people’.
Liar. A rusty old hulk lies
off Canvey Island:
its message, Gravesend.
This is the story of the
Shareholders gather, the
registrar is a spectacled
Rumblings at Bishopsgate,
hardly a thought
in the ditch:
for derivatives or
All rise at London Bridge
minorities, hire advisors,
issue a prospectus and
print it on
‘we have a bank, gentlemen.’
unable to break out
of Normandy 1944. Then
in St Mary’s Axe,
the famous scouts,
Mrs Gray, Islington, steps
forward as c-in-c.
in the pub.
‘Your savings are hardly
Let us all
the rise and rise again
of the Ionian
Pray Americans come.
Booted. On. Now.
Sybil, wait: it is tea
when the biscuit broke
you like my uncle
John Ball, our
By the walls: a horse.
And in exchange
Necessary. To this,
a hard something-
In bakelite red’.
I shared a cab
once with Margot
I am thinking this as
lifts on my good times
with Razzle and Inc.
Sons of Israel,
we crossed seas-
placed bets, laughed at ourselves;
had a run at it.
Then drew lots, divided forces,
hunted as the fox.
David, is that a name you like?
I heard you cry out earlier over coffee:
that this chase might have a bloodless end
so in our wanderings we both be brought to safety.
Trouble me not, Pip: finding my body
on the platform at Bank, erect at Suez.
None has declined more since ’57. But the
spasm that runs every night over Fleet.
Play this song-the sound of poor herdsmen
that come now: enjoying their ports in Greens.
Strike a note for the old man whose hat
is paper. Read by some. In finance.
It was May; the sky was early technicolour.
I was removed by something greased, a civil
servant-learning Pythagoras after Eden.
Business centre. The television is
on. Somebody has a headache.
Aircraft leaflet the area,
Margaret Thatcher is on the radio.
A bank manager addresses rotary.
Someone sets fire to the kitchen.
Sit then perfectly still and be
John, or Nanki-Poo
dedicated to that certainty which
disappeared with miners and
Handel’s requiem in Old Trafalgar
Rise then Metroland although
the warmth is that
of unkept places at Euston.
Property values rise steadily
in the background: foreign investors
The Greek was dejected that day
and went the whole hog at auction
in memory of his mother, an
Blessings on the Harvest Festival.
I shall contribute an onion.
Or sponsor the cricket team to
advertise my undertakings on their
flannels in deo excelsis so
something is tasteful in
suburbia. Where I Am.
Hitler and Stalin are the names
of the dogs that roam our streets
after dark. Purchased from
a friend, whose sister has a
brother whose sister is the
receptionist at the business
centre in England.