"charing" poems
I gaze at the dark skies,
said Nima, it matches
my depression in depth
and mood, sitting in
the hospital ward
in my private room
my parents paid for.
They come now and then,
my mother more,
to moan and criticise,
to moralise about
my life and deeds.
I wait for Benedict to come;
he brings me cigarettes
and chocs, brings me
news of the outside world.
I have met him in London
if the quacks allow me out
on a day or weekend pass.
We stayed one night
at that cheap hotel
off Charing Cross Road:
the bed was old
and creaked each time
we made love or moved
in nightly passion.
I do not think
he will come today:
he works all week days
as a rule; I must contend
alone with my mood
and mind and dark skies
and day to day depression
in my own way and fashion.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
A heart full of wine
and liquor-spotted lips
I can’t remember the last time we kissed or how long it lasted for.
Yesterday’s makeup across a sham of a smile
I always catch a glimpse of you on Sundays; it’s where you used
to hold my hand and trace secrets across my forearm.
Daisies stripe the path we ambled again and again until the grass was embedded
with stumbling prints of your neon Nikes and the soft tap of my feet.
I still feel you in my veins
The toxin levels rise; I watch it on the monitor.
A plastic bracelet wraps my wrist too tight, the way your left hand did.
I expected you to burst like a volcano
and flood me with heat, scalding my ribs
and charing all flesh.
I waited for you to make me new,
and you didn’t.
My hair was the darkest black,
and I faded into shadows
following you.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.
She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.
He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.
Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a ***** she said,
since I've been
standing here.
Guess you
put them right,
he said.
Do I look
like a *****
she asked.
No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****
She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.
The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.
I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.
He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,
up your *** bores.
Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.
I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.
They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.
Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.
But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.
She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.
He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet
with sandals,
treading the ground.
She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.
They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.
Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.
Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.
Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.
Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.
What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.
She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.
He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.
Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.
Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
I think my first mistake was acknowledging the part of me that found your lips the sweetest that I'd ever had.
Maybe from there it all went downhill because after that I started to feel the edges of my heart charing every time I heard your name on someone else's mouth.
I suppressed the hurt,
I thought I'd surpassed this,
But I think I just buried it because
I thought you'd be worth it in the long run.
Because I thought our love was our own,
Because I thought we were magic.
I didn't realize that magic was fast hands and optical allusions until after you'd made yourself disappear.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
I would have loved
to have had ***
with Kafka
Nima said
something about him
the photo of him
I sat opposite her
in the café
in Charing Cross Road
she had a coke
I sipped coffee
I feel the same
about Marilyn Monroe
I said
love to have got
her in bed
Nima looked at me
disdainfully
you would
she said
not necessarily
for ***
I said
just to listen
to her voice
sense her being there
the scent of her
Nima shook her head
ok I’d listen to Kafka
and sense
his being there
but ********
his **** off
at the same time
she said
an old guy
on the other side
of the café
gave her a look
have you read
any of his books?
I asked
some
she said
the one where he turns
into a big beetle
actually it doesn't say beetle
in the book
it says gigantic vermin
which people has interpreted
as a beetle or bug
I said
she sipped her coke
it's his body
I want to go to bed
with not his book
she said
he's dead
I said
died in 1924
shame
she said
he doesn’t know
what he's
missed out on
I guess he did
I said
she smiled
have to be satisfied
with his books then
won't I
we drained our drinks
and went on our way
I went to Dobell's
Jazz Record shop
and bought
a Coltrane LP
then we walked
to the train station
where she got a train
to the hospital
where she was being treated
for her drug addiction
I went home to play
my Coltrane
on my record player
via another train
thinking of her
and Kafka
and me and Monroe
having ***
in that cheap hotel
off Trafalgar Square
where Nima and I
once had *** there.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
In No Strange Land
O World invisible, we view thee,
O World intangible, we touch thee,
O World unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air -
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?
Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!
The drift of pinions, would be harken,
Beats at our clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places; -
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.
But (when so sad, thou couldst not sadder)
Cry; - and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.
Yea, in the night, my soul, my daughter,
Cry, - clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
....
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
It’s a normal night
a little bit of ***** and
the sky has something
in it’s teeth,
I can’t pick at it
all i can do is look
as it smiles down at me,
the chill peeking into my skin
as everything around me
seems so content,
raspy footsteps around
a frozen yard trickle
down my earlobes,
moonlit cigarette smoke
dancing like scissors
across my upper lip,
the sound of nothing
but tearing paper
kindling before my eyes,
distant cars
singing roadside echo’s
charing my ears
like burning flower pedals,
and all that crosses my mind
is the how unfathomable
the beauty of nighttime is,
I find myself daydreaming
when the sun sets
and sleep walking
when it rolls over,
the emptiness of
eventide is a glass
half empty being
topped off half full,
repressing every
ominous feeling of
daytime, but the
one thing that
will subside not
is the ubiquitous
thought of you.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
Having met Julie
at Victoria railway station
and travelled by tube
to Charing Cross Road
you sneaked
into Dobell's
jazz record shop
and listened
to some Coltrane
in the small record booth
up close
she having got out
of the hospital
for the day
although
the drug withdrawal
was getting her tight
her short skirt
was riding high
as she sat there
squashed up
near to you
her eyes closing
and opening
her hands
in prayer mode
in her lap
can we go now?
she said
I need a drink
and smoke
so you left the booth
giving the guy
back the Coltrane
record sleeve
and left the shop
taking it on foot
to the café
and ordering
two coffees
and she took out
her smokes and lit up
and she gave
you one too
and she talked
of how her parents
hadn't visited
and how
the whole show
at the hospital
was getting her
on the edge
and you sat
watching her
the dark hair
drawn back
with a black ribbon
the red
high necked jumper
the short black skirt
her eyes bright
as stars
her lips making
a large O
then closing up
and going
like a narrow slit
you remember
that quickie
we had
in that small cupboard?
she said
those brooms
and boxes
and then she smiled
and you smiled too
that was my last time
she said
last time I had it
she said louder
she took a drag
of her smoke
and sat silent
watching the smoke
rise before her eyes
Warwick’s worried
about you
you said
is he now
she said sarcastically
well he can go pray
to his God
for me then
she said
sitting back
in the seat
yes you thought
the ***
had been good
but quick
unexpected
out of the blue
she in her night gown
(and little else)
and in the background
the music playing
from the radio
some Beatles' song
along the hospital ward
what did you think
of the Coltrane album?
you said
breaking the silence
in the café
bored my **** off
she said
I’ll get it anyway
you replied
and she looked out
the window darkly
as if someone
had fingered her
slowly
then died.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
10236 Charing Cross Road
Holmby Hills, CA. 90077
*To go where young rabbits frolic and dance
Would be a sweet treat if I had the chance
To swim in the water where famous cottontails get wet
Where champagne bubbles are spilled by the elite jet set
Maybe I might win a million dollar lotto
That could be my ticket to enter the grotto
Past muscle bound bouncers, inside velvet ropes and stanchions
To ogle, google and spill my own bubbles at The ******* Mansion
To escape normality and alter reality before I grow old
Playing with Playmates and Bunnies and this months Centerfold
10236 Charing Cross Road, Holmby Hills CA. 90077
Without a doubt this is the address of Heaven*
Thank you
Mr. Hefner
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
You followed Julie
in and out
of book shops
along Charing Cross Road
watching
as she picked out
a book to view
a few pages
or run a thin finger
down the book’s spine
studying her face
as she took out
a Sartre or Wittgenstein
her eyes running
along the lines
mouthing the big words
she talking
of her parents
the doctors
how they were pretty much
shot out of the sky
when they discovered
she was stabled up
in some hospital wing
for drug plunging
or pill popping
and you should have seen
my mother’s face
she said
like daddy
had ****** her ****
she picked out
a book by Schopenhauer
the old philosopher’s face
on the cover
staring out
you searched her eyes
the depth of them
the colour
the changing hue
from what appeared
green to blue
and green again
or so it seemed
when have you got
to be back
in the hospital?
you asked
6pm or so
she muttered
pushing the book back
on the shelf
wiping her hands
on her jeans
her small ****
indicating their presence
as she moved
toward you
what are your parents
going do about you?
you asked
keep out of sight
of their posh friends
say I’m abroad
or someplace else
you noticed her lips
as she spoke
her tongue
moving over them
like some waking snake
then she moved on and out
of the shop
and along the road
you kept up beside her
sensing her hand
seeking yours
taking one
of your fingers
she put it
to her mouth
and gave a ****
and eyed you
sideways on
with that grin
she sometimes wore
that young middle class
English girl
playing the *****
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Julie followed Benedict
from bookshop to bookshop
then they went in a cafe
on Charing Cross Road
and sat down
by the window
and ordered two coffees
and lit up cigarettes
how's it going
at the hospital?
he asked
gutty
she said
boring my ******* off
I shouldn't be there
she inhaled deeply
on her cigarette
once you're off the drugs
you won't be
he said
I am off the drugs
she looked at him
well most of the time
she said
what do they say
at the hospital?
they said my parents
want me to stay there
until I'm cleaned off
she said
but you're out today
he said
yes on good behaviour
she said
any sign
I've taken anything
then I'm locked in
and Daddy said
they'll have me sectioned
if need be
he has doctor friends
who will oblige
and him and Mother
being doctors themselves
it won't be difficult
she said
Benedict watched
as the waitress
brought the coffees
and put them on the table
and swayed off
in a Monroe fashion
we could take in a film
if you like
he said
no I don't want
to be stuck
in some smokey cinema
she said
I want to be out
in the fresh air
and see London
ok
he said
what about having a stroll
along the Thames Embankment?
then after take in
a look around an art gallery
you are full of fun
she said moodily
ok where then?
he said
some room someplace
and a good ****
she said
the word hung in the air
like a dark cloud
in the cafe
people gaped at her
I think they've got
Lichtenstein at the gallery
this month
he said
Pop Art stuff
he added
she pulled a face
then drew on her cigarette
you're in a mood
he said
maybe you should
have stayed at the hospital
and twiddled your thumbs
on the ward
she stared at him
releasing smoke
from her mouth slowly
ok the gallery
isn't too bad an idea
she said
but I'm gagging
for a fix
my body's screaming for it
she went quiet
and sipped her coffee
he looked at her
sitting there
dark brown hair
tied by a ribbon
her eyes staring
at the table
her fingers holding
the cup and cigarette
he recalled the time
at the hospital
when they'd managed
to be alone
in the small broom cupboard
and the quick ***
in the dark
between brooms
and dusters
and buckets
he smiled
what you smiling at?
she said
cupboard love
he said
she laughed
yes that was good
she said
unexpected too
and any moment
some poor cleaner
coming for a bucket
and seeing us at it
she stubbed out
her cigarette
in an ashtray
on the table
and they went out the cafe
and back along
towards Trafalgar Square
to the art gallery
to see what was there.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Nima said the art gallery stank
and all those middle class types
(she being one herself
what with her education
and upbringing and all)
and the usual
bourgeoisie stuff
on the walls
and she huffed
and puffed
and so Naaman took her
to Leicester Square
to some bar he knew
and got her a drink
and lit her a cigarette
and she said
she needed a fix
got the hunger for it
but they’d know
at the hospital
when she got back
and there would be
hell to pay
and the parents
would blow their top
them being doctors and all
and so what they’d say
to her she couldn’t repeat
so she just drank her drink
and smoked her smoke
and Naaman said
he quite liked the art
in the gallery
especially the modern stuff
and the Yank guy
wasn’t really trying
to chat her up
he just wanted
to draw her attention
to the riches
of our monarchy
oh sure he was
she said
he was after
getting into my pants
and she got all verbal
against men and Yanks
and the **** war
in Vietnam
and Naaman just sat
and listened to her jabbering
her eyes lit up
like lights in a harbour
her small **** moving
as she gestured
her tight jeans
(red cords)
hugging her thighs
(a feast to his eyes)
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the pink nails
the unbitten nails
the slim hands
then she stopped
and drained her glass
and said she had
to go ****
and so he watched her go
wiggling her hips
her fine tight ***
and he thought
of that time
in the hospital
at the last visit
when he and she
snuck into that
small room
where they kept
brooms and such
and had a quick ****
she in her nightgown
(pulled up)
and he half
listening out
for sounds
hoping a domestic
didn’t come
and want a broom
or brush
and when she came back
he went off with her
through the Square
and along
Charing Cross Road
she talking of the state
of the toilet back there
the things
some women do
the messy *******
and on she went again
her voice jabbering away
and he knew
she needed her fix
needed it bad
so he got a tube train
to Victoria Station
and on to the hospital
where she was kept
the nurse being
quite concerned
at her state
and took her away
and she waved
(Nima not the nurse)
and blew him a kiss
from her palm
and he blew one back
knowing it wouldn’t reach
her lips or ***
but would do her
no harm.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
A heart full of wine
and liquor-spotted lips.
A backless dress
and an inch to breathe.
Inch of garment, inch of air
suffocating underneath starlit blue
I, an abstract decoration, in your cabin of lies.
Touched me when you felt it, as if I was the skin
of a bear draped over a bookshelf,
murdered and witnessed first-
hand. Red.
Do it ‘cause you love me
The pillow, a shade of red,
you placed beneath my hair, curling it between fingers.
Pouted whispers across my neck
Do it ‘cause you love me
Slyness and sadness gleaming in your left eye.
A birthmark on your bicep, the hue of mulch surrounding flowers
holding flowers in place
Roots with a fixed circumference
Petals with a uniform height
Silk of a widow’s nightgown never did compare
to the softness of your skin on my skin, hands, lips, body whole
oh, dear, oh dear an entire body blanketing mine.
Your stance, superior, and I, an invalid, counting cars and
tracing with my eyes the plaid of boxers.
A predator recovering from a pounce.
Purple veins pierced through skin,
a sunrise just below layers of naked,
parallel lines racing through wrists, legs, a forehead
differing shades of her own hair envelope her fingers,
delicate and stronger, two limbs of power.
Her body breaks; rubble in a storm.
The town’s on fire, my love. Lightning
struck dust on the south building.
God is real, living within your color.
I wanted your temper (I’m sorry) tempest to
flood me with heat, scalding my ribs
and charing all flesh.
Patiently waiting for renewal,
and you didn’t.
Lavender veins,
my hair was the darkest black,
and I faded into shadows
following you.
A dumb little girl who took her ******* off whenever you said she could.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Julie stuffed the cigarette
into her mouth
and hungrily inhaled
Benedict was late
and she standing
by Charing Cross station
was annoyed
the morning
had started bad
the nurse on the ward
questioned whether
she should be allowed out
after not taking
her medication
and who
was she meeting?
after such questioning
and the doctor saying
OK but to be back
by such and such
an hour
she felt like a child again
as if her parents
had been resurrected here
and not at home
traffic whirled by
noise
cars hooting
vans and lorries
passing by
people
O such people
Eliot was right
about death
undoing so many
she exhaled
watching the smoke
sit on the air
before being
whooshed off
by a passing car
last time Benedict said
he'd meet her
by the station
at such and such
a time
and here she was
but not he
she leaned
against the fence
last time they'd gone
to the cinema
but this time
she wanted
more time away
from such places
to be with him
not sit
and watched a film
but where was he?
she felt like a *****
standing there
smoking
one hand supporting
one elbow
one hand holding
the cigarette in such
a sluttish way
she did feel
such a ****
wearing the short skirt
and the red top
her hair drawn severely
into a bun
at the back
of her head
last time
in Trafalgar Square
she'd been almost
picked up twice
dressing as she had
telling them
to **** off
getting mad
even the nurse
on the ward
thinks she a ****
especially after
that quick ***
with Benedict
in that side room
she laughed
and inhaled
her spirits rising
with the sight of him
coming up the hill
from the underground
waving his hand madly
happy to see him
knowing the day
after all won't end
that badly
and the image
in her mind
of the ***
in the cupboard
amidst brooms
and buckets
and mops
in the dark
and the fumbling
and he walking fast
towards her
that bright expression
in his eyes
thinking that is how
worlds are born
while another dies.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
In his study he sits contemplating
activities of this case at hand
with marvellous mind and fragile heart
talks to Watson as what is planned
His deerstalker hangs wet in the hallway
his cane in the hat stand below
he smokes hard on his pipe
Watson gets his gun, they are ready to go
Adorning their coats
Mrs Hudson appears
wishing them luck
whilst holding back tears
Out of Baker Street
they hail a Hanson
to Charing Cross
to pay Moriarty a visit
How many times Holmes, Watson sighed
have you crossed swords with this villain
My Dear Watson Holmes replyed
evil deeds must stop and I am willing.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
I watched you as a drop of water run
Liquid in this bony place of stanchions
Cases, bags and hardened faces.
For a time you lasted here
Shaken by bad tempered stampings
Waitings
Delays and
Endings.
Until at last
You fell.
And rose again
As cloudy light
Enchantment for a sky we cannot see.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
Mrs Squires and Benedict
at the cheap hotel
in back street
off Charing Cross station
and she said
come on in
let's share this bath
and so he undressed
and there she was
in the water
waiting for him
and he climbed in
and sat opposite her
in the big bath
her shorter legs
between his
his longer legs
outside of hers
she lay back
her *******
sleeping puppies
her hands touching
his feet
come on
she said
don't be shy
and she tickled his toes
and tried to lift them
to her lips
he laughed
I see Percy's moving
she said
he looked at his pecker
rising in the water
needs a wash
she said
and that was that
and after in the room
by the noisy gas heater
in front
of the double bed
he dried
and watched
as she lay there smoking
her hair brushed back
her nightdress
covering her
and she said
wasn't the show good?
yes it was
he said
toweling his pecker dry
the dancers were good too
she inhaled
he studied her
wondered what
her husband would say
seeing her there
what he would have thought
of her bathing
with some young dude
in some cheap hotel
once he had dried
he put on
his dressing gown
and lay on the bed
beside her
and she offered him
a cigarette and lit it for him
and they watched
as their joint smoke
rose in swirling patterns
later
when the lights
were out
(except for the on and off
neon lights
from the street outside)
they made love
in the double bed
the springs going some
the gas fire hissing
like a box of snakes
and he thinking
of her husband
lying in some
other bed alone
with the lights out
and she thinking
of the best ***
she'd had in years
and more to come
and the on and off
neon lights
and somewhere
a gunshot
or car backfiring
and he wondering
what her husband
would say
or think
her having
a young stud
and a good lay.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
It was the summer of love,
at least that's what they said.
There were guys with long
hair and beards and beads,
with wide trousers, and loud
shirts, and girls with long
hair, and dresses like nuns,
or short skirts, showing off
their not so good legs or thighs.
There was Hendricks, Beatles
and Stones and playing, music
loud, live. Julie was out for
the day; the hospital quacks,
giving her a day pass, no
shooting up, no pill popping.
She met Ben in Trafalgar
Square, tight skirt and top,
hair held in a ponytail, bright
eyed, big smile. He was
by the fountains having a
smoke, eyeing the girls,
listening to some long
haired guy strum a guitar,
his skinny girlfriend doing
a dance, her bony legs
looking breakable, ****
non existent. Been here
long? Julie said. No, just
a few moments, he lied,
not wanting to give her
reasons to moan or row.
She wanted to go for a beer.
So he took her to the bar
off Charing Cross Road
and ordered two cold beers
and lit up some smokes.
She spoke of some nurse
who almost lost her her pass,
all about some **** up, over
drugs, she’d forgotten to take.
She said the quacks were ok
with it, the tall one is hot,
she said, shouldn’t mind him
poking around in my parlour.
He told her about the Charles
Lloyd jazz album he'd bought,
how he'd met him outside Dobell's,
got a sign copy of the new L.P.
She drained her drink and he
ordered another two, she took
one of his smokes and lit up
and sat back, crossing her legs,
her black short skirt riding her
thighs, ******* in his eyes.
No place for *** she said,
unless you know of a bed
and room going cheap for
an hour or so? No luck,
he said, wishing he did,
remembering the fast shaft,
the quickie in the hospital
broom room, amidst brooms
and brushes and buckets
or boxes and all. She said
her parents rang, and they
argued, and she slammed
down the phone. They said
it was the summer of love,
but where they sat, boozing
and smoking, it fell pretty flat.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Nima looked bored
as we walked
the art gallery
she was only allowed out
of the hospital
for a few hours
promising no drug fixes
or *****
can't we go elsewhere?
she asked
bored here
I felt her boredom
it seeped into my bones
let's go for a coffee
I said
so we went for a coffee
in a coffee bar
across the road
and had a smoke
you were late
she said
I only have a few hours
out of that mad house
sorry I popped
into the jazz record shop
and left me waiting
in Trafalgar Square
she said
what did you buy?
nothing yet
I said
I'll go back later
saw a Coltrane LP I liked
I said
***** that jazz stuff
she said
we drained our coffees
and walked back
to the train station
and I saw her
on her train
and kissed her
at the window
and the train went off
and I watched
until she was out of sight
then back tracked
to the jazz record shop
to buy the Coltrane LP
thinking of Nima
and the time
we had a ***
in that cheap hotel
by Charing Cross
and the bed creaking
and the odd
hot and cold water taps
and she and I
laying there
I walked back
to the gallery
for a last look around
thinking of the Coltrane
and the Coltrane sound.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
I had rung
Nima in the week
at the hospital
(the nurse
wasn't happy about it
but she brought Nima
to the phone)
she said
she'd meet me
in London
by the Embankment station
so on the Saturday
I went to the station
and waited for her
people passed me
on their way up West
or back into the tube station
going elsewhere
then I saw her
coming out from
the underground
she smiled
when she saw me
and hugged me
and we kissed
glad to see you
she said
the quacks weren't
going let me out
but they did eventually
why wasn't they going
to let you out?
I said
my mother had said
I was not to go out
but as I am over 18
they said she had
no rights over me
so they reluctantly
let me go
but I have to be back
by dusk
that's ok
I said
where do you
want to go?
I need a drink
she said
so we walked
up the road
and found a bar
on Charing Cross Road
we sat in a corner
with our drinks
and we lit up cigarettes
I should be leaving
the hospital soon
she said
if I stay off drugs
and stay with my parents
so should be able
to see you easier
at weekends
that'd be good
I said
at your parent's place?
no way there
they'd interrogate you
like the Gestapo
Nima said
we'll meet in London
some place
ok
I said
we talked on
but I was just glad
to watch her
bright eyes
and happy face.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 3:52 AM UTC
quisiera saber por qué
en medio del amor a veces oigo
cómo un cuervo le dice a un hombre que
quiere verlo por un asunto importante
el cuervo se llama Laghupatanaka y
en el libro primero del Panchatantra se cuenta
que puede hacer casamiento y amistad entre iguales
pero no entre la comida y quien se la come
un *** se comió a Panini autor del cálculo diferencial
un elefante mató a Jaimini inventor del ciclotrón
un monstruo marino devoró a Pingala que conocía la electrónica
qué valen las virtudes para las bestias hambrientas
tampoco vale creer en las promesas
del enemigo, de la policía del gobierno del patrón
el rebaño sigue al elefante porque le tiene confianza
el *** es el rey del bosque pero nadie lo corteja
tampoco sé por qué estas reflexiones
caen como la nieve en Charing Cross donde te amo
y me hundo en ti como en un río
de ambrosías y leche y miel y te amo
no sé qué pasará con mis despojos pero
ellos se irán fuertemente marcados por
los días que me amaste y
la tristeza de ciertos pensamientos
624
Inflatable bride march,
Plastic enormous,
Stoical hens,
Mystery "pleasures".
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
As my soul watches that ticking clock,
I see visions of your pure beauty hit like a charing shock.
These eyelids on mine fall down into rest,
I'm bough to majestic dreams in my head been against your chest.
I hang still in the air as I wait for your happy words,
oh how they mass as the if the gods inked them into herds.
These forming letters I conjure up for you run so true,
this we feel is for both long-overdue.
The wanting and needing to press my fragile lips to yours,
I digest thoughts of placing my fingers over your heavenly contours.
My hopes for us are pure as two white doves,
lets both imagine this shall be someday that purest of loves.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
aren’t as many second hand
bookshops on the charing cross road as
there were when I was younger
of course, so were they ..
May 20, 2025
May 20, 2025 at 7:52 PM UTC
I meet Nima
on the Embankment
behind Charing Cross
underground station.
She's waiting for me
with hands in the pockets
of her coat,
collar turned up,
looking down
into the Thames.
I cross over the road
towards her,
her back is facing me,
slim figure,
hair tied back
in a ponytail.
Been waiting long?
I say.
She turns and her eyes
are tired and drained.
Not long;
been looking
at the water,
she says.
She kisses me,
puts her arms
around my waist.
What's in the bag?
She asks.
I bought a LP
at Dobell's Jazz Shop.
She takes the bag
and looks inside.
Might have guessed
it would be jazz.
She hands me
back the bag.
How are things
at the hospital?
She shrugs
her shoulders.
Difficult;
the ******** want me
to do this and that;
had a job
to get out today,
she says.
Let's go get a drink
and chat,
I suggest.
She nods and we
walk up towards
Charing Cross Road.
So how did you
get out after all?
I sneaked out,
she says,
got some clothes
and here I am.
Whose clothes?
Don't know;
underwear are mine,
the rest I borrowed,
she says.
Won't they be looking
for you at the hospital?
I ask.
Who cares.
We take a coffee
in a cafe off
Charing Cross Road
and sit down.
You're a drug addict,
they're bound to be
looking for you,
I say.
I wanted to see you;
needed to get out
of that hell hole
and the **** nurse
and quacks,
she says.
I give her a cigarette
and take one myself
and light up.
Don't you want
to see me?
She says.
Sure I do,
but I'm worried about you.
Don't worry.
I do.
She inhales
and looks at me.
I want *** and a fix,
she says,
I know where
I could a fix,
but I want ***
with you, Benny,
not just anyone.
I look around
at the those nearby
in the cafe
who heard her.
She closes her eyes.
I know,
no place available,
some nights
I’m that desperate
I fancy the night nurse.
I raise my eyebrows.
I don't,
just saying,
she says,
her closed eyes still,
unmoving.
I recall the quickie
at the hospital that time.
I look at her
sitting there,
eyes closed,
cigarette smoke
rising in the air.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC