Excerpt of my poem DICKS IN THE CITY, spoken for the Cultural Traffic event at the Old Spitalfields Market in London, October 2018.
RUNNING. SIGH. SEATING. SIGH. BREATHING. SIGH. PISSING. SIGH.
And we spit the sleep we once believed deep.
Watering times, some liquor guilty of abandon.
Patriots, riots until the sun comes up.
Miserable lions in golden metal, dreamers now wonders breathing asphalt.
Belladonna, where did you hide?
Our eyes bleed white, empty, empty, crazy for lies.
True believers in disguise, pretty bastards content of running behind the light.
Cash to palm and ass, ass too wide, hole too bright, elevators of trash up and down the exit intended.
Probably their shine, my oversight.
RUNNING. BLEED. SEATING. BLEED. BREATHING. BLEED. PISSING. BLEED.
They are the babes, forever prostitutes satisfied with millions bills minus aids.
Did they check in, or out? The devil is laughing. Now thrilled with the wicked.
WE ARE the wicked; and here they are stepping on our throats, pretending to own the pole.
We are the damned, flying high bold as an attempt to the reserve.
In boxes we leave them, insecure enough to even spell the word “mirror.”
Do they notice around them the torpor?
We choke under the embodiment of their horror.
Thank you Sir, thank you Madam.
You are welcome; in the deep we float.
They kill, we suck.
DYING. SWALLOW. PRAYING. SWALLOW. TRYING. SWALLOW. HOPING. SWALLOW.
The end, their chain.
In our veins, we are sovereigns.