Tuesday, 8 May 2012

Tourist Trail

these fingers may taste of chicken
cupped and feathered ignoble in a
fizzling slow rare light
street wet not from rain


more indulgent my shame
in a corner where the rats cut a dash in Hugo Boss
as happy to pick your pocket as your bones

in the sweating fist of night
or the blast of this mad dog’s febrile noon
for  what kind of  Englishman do your knees bleed?
not this bullshit breed mongrel whore’s child with
every lesion pledged to his flag of convenience?

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