I felt disillusioned and rudderless, which seemed like an appropriate response to my circumstances.
Cropping warts from my fingers with a pair of nail clippers -
Soiling the carpet.
Long faces stood staring at me mildly disgusted, not amused,
Soiling the carpet.
Long faces stood staring at me mildly disgusted, not amused,
Job? no.
Living rough in Manchester – rain -
boredom - hunger.
I had in a week homeless discovered –
that in places like this I could get
A few hours of warm stability amongst cold prolonged crowds - long-drawn out
Recession, I lounged in a corner. Noticeable.
Recession, I lounged in a corner. Noticeable.
A guard, yes a security guard nervously
glared not knowing what to do.
His lardy pale face grimacing like a
baby farting,
He began to approach, sluggish.
He began to approach, sluggish.
Today stank mostly of me, that an a
artificial-zest, recycled air. And human misery.
The colour scheme - grey. Hairspray.
Humid. I'm removed - yes forcibly.
From centre to centre.
Plenty to go around. They're not exclusive.
From centre to centre.
Plenty to go around. They're not exclusive.
A park bench.
I pass an hour staring at ducks, they
stare back expectant.
I pass a stone – Oh the library
prohibited, stealing furniture, a nasty business,
I can never go back. Weary books too.
Churches – cold and naturally
righteous over and under bearing in equal measure,
I disappear into an art gallery.
Striding along side Matisse, Picasso, Turner etc.
Paint, frames.
White walls, and so forth.
Paint, frames.
White walls, and so forth.
Wrapped myself around a radiator. Not a raised
brow.
I pass myself off as an instillation
for the remaining day.
My title: 'Thanking you free culture'
You really have your own voice as a poet. Your poems smell of urine and desolation, but lingering somewhere on the outskirts, a ghoulish delight in it all....
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