Her ambition is killing
Miss Wembley seats out on the six thirty,
Reading of holidays, manicures, pedicures –
perfectly in ironed veil
doing admin in excelsis to the metal rhythms,
and computerised voices directing thoughts and noises
firmly between train and platform.
So making her way by season ticket
up through Maida Vale and the wealthier mezzanines.
Who is she?
Secret, searched for somewhere
On the North Circular,
is she the lark she sometimes says she is?
Just for a moment
while still visible in this setting out and setting in
her wings still visible,
in the rapid, early commuting.
Others noticed but did not say
As they went up and down
And along their way
In their more ordinary migration.
Like some infectious carp,
My bonus out
Ponders the darkening.
A hundred pound predator,
An inland shark
Swims towards the great metropolis.
No system should despair
Nor Michigan resist.
Every good American, booted, on.
He paid our debts.
Made our borders strong.
And the greenback,
What you’ll find at Kingdom come.
If it please the mighty Abraham
In smile-less state
Opening those holy and beloved gates.
With something personal
Hand upon receiver
Make this truly awesome.
Die Hard guys laughing and giggling
To themselves as they ordered pizza.
Who measure this smallest tremble.
Kids raised on Marx and aphrodisia
The same boys (spoilt I think)
Who broke the campus window
To the hot gates
Every top floor directed –
Ice sculpture of ourselves in victory.
Told to be alert, sensible
As the smirk shifted
To bundled reserves
In mysterious havens –
For many to swim to.
Make science alchemy
If crazy/others madmen.
We stand in shadows
At times motionless.
From the depths: Listen. Terror. Kiss.
To those who push back
Who fall but want a piece of us.
Instead we step aside
To take to the inferno
Where dogs clean their bowls in pure lust
And money is like gold dust
A four minute warning is all you’ve got to join us.
In a crash of symbols, recessions, jingles
With all the trappings of failure
In rally between nought and zero
As rates encourage more mania
Carried away to darker pools and caves
On the wheels of twelve casinos.
Now in a mass of bleeding liquidity,
A bladder with too much credit –
Circuits of pipes and plumbing
What lies there
A simple domino of taste.
A golden apple.
A matter not of net but gross.
More than life or death.
A lifetime spent to blind Greece.
To guarantee a fortune
Without any benefit.
Let our villas, though, be saved
To live the way we live.
So how about tonight?
Conditions seem somehow right.
You remember the filing cabinet,
Fax machine and stranger blackberry?
Now we have something more agreeable.
To sit alone amid hotels
Indulging ourselves in all those smells;
And when it takes our fancy
Call ourselves Sid and Nancy.
Worry, worry, worry,
Time’s such an absolute bother
Except when rendezvousing
By the nearest railway
Without a need for endless email.
And think of all the gifts –
Silks, bracelets, shifts.
Clothes wrapped in seeming eternity
With shoes of the finest diamante.
Scent of roses and clementine
And diamonds from Tiffany.
‘Come on down then’
Join me on this bed of flowers
To pass each minute and every hour.
It is sunrise over Ruislip –
In circles that are ornamental
So-called by council
Those names are silent and gentle.
An almost light yet
The commuter is stirring.
Awakes to thunder (rail to rail in competition).
A heat to somewhere.
Home organised perfectly –
Dinner prepared before leaving.
With urgency and haste.
Gentle, merciful motherings relate.
Shall we dango the fan? Really?
Earlier that afternoon,
I took tea and tango.
My red shoes nearly killed him.