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’.