<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Earth, the Sea and the Human Spirit are getting tired of the City<\/strong><\/p>\n The city writes a city in its margins The city writes a blue plaque on a lifetime. The banknotes squiggle faces on a thumbprint. The artist’s splodging paint. The pot is spinning. The ache of living’s numbing: gulping stories He finds me as a digger finds a helmet. He finds me and he floats me down the river. He swims beside me till we find a dolphin. The sea has taken ill; it’s in the city. They’re racing for the stairs – the lift is broken. The journos get the story but the paper There’s a race to save your skin and to adorn it There are questions I would ask you – come back here now! There are places round the corner we could go to. She shook me off: the earth was getting stronger. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nAnd writes another city at its core.
\nThe city writes the lives of other people –
\nErases some, engraves some in its stone.<\/p>\n
\nA lifetime writes a weary back-and-forth
\nFrom house to street, from bus stop to the office.
\nThe office writes its boredom on a face.<\/p>\n
\nThe currency has launched itself downstream.
\nThe bridge is spanning suburbs, poor and wealthy.
\nThe tracks are laid; the tanks are coming in.<\/p>\n
\nThe loom is throwing light on woven light.
\nThe texture of the city is its people.
\nThe people are in mothballs. Taken fright.<\/p>\n
\nI stagger down the road to down a pint.
\nThe milkman starts his round in early morning
\nAnd finds me as a digger finds a find.<\/p>\n
\nHe finds me as he excavates a sword.
\nHe finds a heap of rust – he finds a fossil.
\nHe finds a trace of life, he finds a pulse.<\/p>\n
\nHe finds me and he sends me out to sea.
\nHe questions all my remnants as he pushes
\nThe raft I’m on, the water under me.<\/p>\n
\nHe swims behind me when we find a whale.
\nThe city’s far behind, the milk abandoned.
\nThe sea just rattles, gargles TCP.<\/p>\n
\nThe sea wants back its poisoned life again.
\nThe sea is washing up upon your doorstep.
\nThe bankers float the currency and groan.<\/p>\n
\nThe cleaners block their way with seven mops.
\n‘The clean-up job will take a generation.\u2019
\nIn private the PM admits we’re stuffed.<\/p>\n
\nIs pulping in the river – there’s a jam
\nOf logs that days ago were living giants.
\nThere’s a funeral of bonfires in the town.<\/p>\n
\nWith painted pictures from another age.
\nThere’s a city pushing wildlife to the margins.
\nThere are teeth tearing off the city’s skin.<\/p>\n
\nThere are times we never met and days we missed.
\nThose unsaid words you’re scrawling on your haunches.
\nThose ways we never did it, unborn kids.<\/p>\n
\nThere are friends we have who never came to tea.
\nThere are plants we never planted in our garden.
\nThere are trees to climb and promises to make.<\/p>\n
\nThe earth was shitting out the city’s shit.
\nMy days of dirt were done: she called me faithless.
\nShe said that she was dying, gave a roar.<\/p>\n