Transitional, healing

You (affectionately) mock my admiration
for certain stylish bridges
from the whimsical to the brutalist 

Consider: The Bridge as a Symbol of Internal Integration

Riga, Latvia had a succession of beauties which
sent me into rhapsodies you found bewildering

Vientiane where I lost my mind on the giddy crossing
as you nearly lost your footing

Consider: the irrational third element resolving
an unconscious tension between opposing forces

Gazing along the Thames from certain vantage points
may be a minor healing process, a
grouping of history and memory

Consider: jumping off one - no
let us not be flippant, let us recall
connections we have made, and bridges
we have traversed 

From Salford to the Florida Keys
the accidental glories of my travels
from Newcastle to Nashville, groping
blindly in search of
the transcendent function

The boy in seat 13A

Has a spider man hoodie
over a pokemon sweatshirt
and a face like a peeled peach

As we land he bounces up and down
yelling DOTCOM DOTCOM

His little brother joins in DOKKEM DOKKEM
which is clearly wrong and he is
enthusiastically corrected

Dinner for 13.5

The half gnaws on the clock
pots sweat / numbers slip
    salt = static
steam counts itself wrong
someone keeps multiplying

No cutlery
only relics
forks dreaming of mouths
spoons bent into questions
    knife = mirror = no

Are these my people
or just noise wearing shoes
the chairs say nothing
the table refuses eye contact

The word 'corridor'
    -rig the alarm-

Faces pixelate
colleagues go flat, play beige
knowledge is contraband
swallow syllables whole
while choking politely

Red red rocks glow like
rules without verbs, as
heat hums my employee ID
there's no way around

Clambering over the rosy blocks
hands full of dinner
feet full of doubt
    skin learns heat
    numbers peel
thirteen and a half step
falls through the cracks

Applause from nowhere
applause from below
    later ≠ later
cutlery rattling its hollow bones
you set the table
upside down

And mispronounced the word 'corridor'
    on purpose

In the current climate crisis

And lacking an aircraft, I draw the courage
to breathe underwater. Send helpless
air bubble messages
fizzing to the surface

Where they fail to catch the dewdrop
and do nothing to aid
the reflection of the cosmos

Better to become
an eel or a snake, afloat absurd
and redundant. 

cf. Roberto Bolaño & Harry Martinson

Karin at Ejector Seat (a knuckle)

Saved her before I saw her  I saved her from some rough boys on the street  corner of Wardour and Meard, joyous to chance Kissed her on the cheek unasked noticing of her thick chestnut hair so unlike the straggly & prematurely silver-tinged wig of 91

‘Come with me, I’ll take you a place I know’

playing the Soho sophisticate

*** The Ejector Seat Reservation Lounge ***

it had a seat on top of a 30-foot hydraulic pole

operating as an entrance stroke exit

Karin looked apprehensive

‘Go ahead, it’s quite safe’ I encouraged her

She climbed in and asked me what happened next I didn’t know and panicked

‘It must be broken, there’s another entrance’ I said blushing

& took her down the dirty subway beneath Rupert swallowing my discomfort 

I’d never actually been down to *** The Ejector Seat Reservation Lounge *** before - didn’t know what to do

or what buttons to press

Down the p-sub we were silent until

‘Look at these marvellous app-ree-kots’ she said

pointing to a cardboard carpet featuring fruits 

fashioned from gemstones

‘App-ree-kots’ I replied seizing on a weak spot, ‘What are app-ree-kots’ 

she turned her head & muttered some German obscenity

the toothless shaggy pressed one into her hand

‘Only a fiver mate’ directed at the gentleman

who caught sniff of a jelly baby detergent rising

and handed over a reluctant note, dreading

The hours ahead with a rusty nail and a feeble sense of gravy

May 1996

This Isn't What I Wanted

In the stillness of night, headphones embrace
You lie in your bed, lost in your space
Building scenarios, a world of your own
Replaying old moments, where seeds were grown

Conversations linger, words left unsaid
A theatre of thought, where fantasies tread
Imagining love - dancing like pure light
In a realm of your making, and demons take flight

Psychologists mutter of daydreams askew
Maladaptive escapes where the mind wanders through
Vividly painted in colours so bright
A refuge from worries, a fortress of light

The brain's network hums, default mode's call
Imagination ignites - soft soothing thrall
Dopamine flows with each triumph you weave
Yet victories fade, like the dusk as you grieve

For roots run deep, where childhood once played
In loneliness grip, in neglect's cruel shade
When the world felt unsafe, yet you crafted a way
To seize a small haven, where you kept fears at bay

Not laziness no, but a dance of the mind,
Your nervous system seeks solace, entwined
But beware of the lure, when escape feels so sweet
For the thrill of the dream pulls you from the street

So tread with care, in a land of your making
Where imagination breathes, and reality's shaking
Life's waiting out there, beyond dreams' gentle hold
In the warmth of the present, let your story unfold

The Invisible Network

A lot of people
become spies
accidentally.

Throwing huge parties
for tech workers.

"How do you afford this?"

Patrons from all over the world
want to keep up.

Access to information
is what it looks like.

They seemed totally oblivious.

Just really good event planners.

I sat there
completely stupefied;
they didn't realize
the actual reason 'they'
paid them to hang out
with the drunk founders.

To clarify -

Trolley nerd bigwigs
afforded all this.

Picking locks in the
event planning world.

Totally oblivious
at least part-time.

"Who are the patrons?"

Certain rich people +
sneaky guy in a suit who
held the huge wingdings
when eventually some
minions turned spies.

        A lot of
        information -
        years ago -
        accidental -
        logistics -
        stupefied.