Likestarlings

Point

In the hell of minutes and issues arising, the mind’s kaleidoscope –
Like the memories were gathering competitive interest,
Like the memories were drunk on lost cat posters,
Budding suddenly, fertislised by coffee mud and aftershave.
Outside the bank three stocky men lean on the railings:
One fantasising about his girlfriend,
One a transparent dancing string in the corner of his vision,
One eating the ghost of a poet. He lights a cigarette.
I love them, as I have been taught to.
You dream about doing something about the rattling window,
Wake up rested, the window still rattling.
The crows, necessary and solemn as bad excuses,
Sweep the park like beaters at a crime scene. No,
In fact they hop in with big cartoon eyes and charming insults:
The slightly older childhood friend, the one with keys.
In Luton I licked a yellow wall to see if it tasted of lemon
Which it did: And Other Beautiful Glitches.
The bar is run by an old boxer with chess pieces tattooed on his knuckles.
‘It’s not that we drink too much, it’s that we’re not doing it right:
You should drink like an old man surveying his extended family under the cypresses.’
From a distance, his smile a flickering back-lit screen.
A politician is a bestselling computer game:
It turns out the point was to absorb glowing power orbs.
And we say, ‘But I don’t think…’ and he interrupts,
‘It turns out the point was to absorb glowing power orbs.’