Railside promenade (revisited)

Songs of the Everyday

They painted it in blood rust red.
As if the orphan weed that crawls
out of the cracks of broken brick
beneath the corrugated sky
is not already eloquent?
Step gingerly along the wet insides,
bearded brown stone spilling
its incontinence onto the concrete,
and keep turning to look back.

The handrail is pink and chipped,
like that Demonic Barbie’s nails
or old bald doll’s head on its spider’s legs.
Your soles sipping the slippery stone,
hold tight the reassuring plastic patina
of this, this parody of reassurance,
and as your hand shifts down its length
you give it, for the little that it gives,
a trail of your hard earned skin.

Beyond, the rain is bristling silently
against the disappearing signals,
the bridge spits into silent stillness,
salivating leaves clog the glistening
lines below like listless tongues.
Clack clack clack. Wet black lips
panting from behind the gaps,
watch as you turn and run
into their swallowing embrace.

Don’t touch, walk swiftly through.
We do not want to hurt you.

Another flight

Songs of Travel

Another flight…
The rain is bouncing up and down in shivering orange puddles
And then dissolving silently inside the settling dark.
My face is pressed against the window as it sheds its sorrows
With trembling fingers touching its goodbye against the glass.

I let my focus go,
And every hanging drop becomes a universe,
A bursting nova, sea of dandelion, myriad of jellyfish,
And as the engines start, those delicately hanging worlds
Devour each other as their jilted course unfolds.

The flooded sky projects its orange tears on my skin and clothes
And every droplet pulses from my aching pores.

 

– o –

another old one.