Nov 2016

Punk never died in' 79
it still lives
at the derelict
warehouse of my youth
in this peninsular of pain.
Another beckons
from the Balkans
and in inspired action
of attraction
I book a couchette
on the Belgrade to Bar
where there's a certain
coastal wind
that stirs a collective unconscious.
I'm out
at the opening
with its uncomfortable
my ears to the calling
of the ancients
who must surely know
what lies
on the other side
of things.
Mountainous Montenegro,
with its savage beauty
at the places
where the edges crash.

I wonder,
will my senses tingle
at prospect,
of fanciful flights
and of being had
high and horny
by the curious Cuban
across the carriage
in whose eyes
I'll see pass
a storm of clouds
as he comes.
Would we drift on song  
to the distant sounds
of Serbian urban folk
until I'm roused
by the pull of my tides
neath a moon
full and looming,
like a confusion
in the crowd
where I can't set still
in a wash of agitated water.