The train is a mechanical snake,
its hiss occasionally scrawled
above the grating of its own

movement as it cuts through
the smear of graffiti and concrete
and waste and dry bracken.

A single voice, “she was the
third fastest girl at the gala,
yeah she was really pleased”,

the voice enveloped by the
drone once again. The train
entering the tunnel.

The Financial Times lies on
the plastic table, the pages loose
from bored ******* bears the

headline: sacrifices required for ambitious goal.
Eyes trace the same paragraph over

and over, drawing nothing from
the coldness of the type script.
I think about conversation but my

tongue lulls in my mouth, dry,
and my mind wanders between
small talk and meagre pleasantries.

I stare at the man across from me for
what seems like minutes, knowing that
he knows I watch him, analyse him,

but there is no fight or pretence, only the
tired apathy and reluctance I know.
his arms cross. His eyes close with half sleep.

Television glows
blue upon my skin.

My head lies on
the static of radio

and the electric
of the streetlights

blaring through my
window keeps me awake.

The red digits of
my alarm clock

grow less vibrant as
the grey sun stirs

to the accompaniment
of the jubilant birds

with their repetitive
song which hangs

like these vacant walls,
holding me.

.
         Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
         Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
         And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
         Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
         (Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
         Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
         And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
         A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
         And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
         I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
         Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.

I

I am often attracted to things unhinged. Not necessarily (traditionally) romantic, more akin to an unwillingness to ask permission, one who might say It was never your permission to begin with and not be angry or upset about having to say it. Few are so willing to evaluate situations without the overwhelming cloud of emotion. Judgment fully withheld, kind banter catching wind. A needed immediacy.

Jean-Michel Basquiat was aware of the past. He pretended to not care if you did not like his paintings. Part of him was upset some people did not understand. Basquiat strangled history down to basics: music, culture, society (not the same thing), generations of family after family. His point was not for you to obtain this. This was his conscience—tangible. Brain processing. Synthesizing. To him it was so simple. I refuse the word primal because it is misguided, it does not factor purity, clarity. Sugar Ray Robinson told Basquiat to stop painting the background. Tuxedo told Basquiat what words to place and where.

So much of my art is stripped and lucid and enacted with only me in mind.

Questa canzone è su di te*

To you
Mother Courage
I extend a cigarette
of shy anticipation
I want you to ****** me
to implement your closure
on the monotone
Duet For One
Raid my loneliness
in a hotel on Naked Street
Walk The Proud Land
of maple leaf melancholy
as you would the violated daughter
of New York Confidential
I'll diffuse the wind
of my depression
for your mourning candle
and undo the changing of
your name
No longer need you be
The Girl In Black Stockings
unless of course you want to be
Yes I want you to ****** me
but not to bear the burden
of a Miracle Worker
steady as you've been
on that unenviable pedestal
In the dictum of my
infinite malaise you define
The Last Frontier
Let me light your cigarette
Louisa
with which you would illuminate
the fog of my unbridled
Silent Movie