These tiny loiterers on the barley’s beard,
And happy units of a numerous herd
Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,
Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings,
How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!
No kin they bear to labour’s drudgery,
Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;
And where they fly for dinner no one knows—
The dew-drops feed them not—they love the shine
Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine
All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress—
When night reposes, for they can do no less;
Then, to the heath-bell’s purple hood they fly,
And like to princes in their slumbers lie,
Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all,
In silken beds and roomy painted hall.
So merrily they spend their summer-day,
Now in the corn-fields, now in the new-mown hay.
One almost fancies that such happy things,
With coloured hoods and richly burnished wings,
Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade
Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid,
Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,
Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.

It’s one dollar per load Wednesday and
Time move’s slow at the corner of East Clinton Street
Where under dim flickered fluorescent lamp posts
Tricks tossed in bottles than splashed back in flasks
Flung to back pockets of loiterers at the Laundromat,
Seems to be a prized accessory of the regular.
The regular, leans on washers with leather skin wrinkled wrung hung far from healed bones, like hangers hanging loose clothes.  With soapy brain, bleached hair matted like a rats
She remembers rents way past due, Joey about to come through, and hunger is bad.
Fast thoughts surpass the regular
She smiles behind me through glass reflecting washers.
Mouth full of rotting cavities gleam in the mirror, the sass shuffles outside and lights a red for a change of scenery
Waiting hesitantly during weekly ritual
Which entails more steps than her walk up the avenue
Separating the darks from the whites, like Grandma used to
Detergent, unbranded is used sparingly
She folds each article of clothing carefully, basking in each minute
Diligent about cold wash versus perm press best suggests that for her today life is made easy
For the regular, laundry day is a great escape
Because fabric builds fast in those plastic baskets basked with sweat saturated dresses for a baby
And Joey’s boxers
Today the regular can transact funds to feel fresh, dryer warm complacency in jean skirts plagued with rhinestones
Costumes crafted to endure weekend sin
At the corner of East Clinton Street, those who do not feel like feeling when dire deeds did ***** cheap lose meaning; come here to worship or cleansed
Meaning, I can’t seem to haul this hamper of laundry laundered with various v-neck tees tainted by poisonous stains, regretfully sunk to the bottom of cotton follicles
It’s too heavy to toil with

power pose
in front of the angry men
"we're not scared of you"

but they should be
she spits fire bright
from lips she wears matte dark
she's digging the perfectly manicured claws into the palms of her hand
hands that bring incredible generosity
and incredible pain
depending on how audaciously you approach her

with your alcohol-stenched breath
and a body that takes up space
but contains nothing of substance
aside from liquor of course
an empty, angry vessel of wordy slurs and slurred words

she knows they don't deserve her tears
they should feel grateful to receive even a smirk
an ounce of her attention
in this economy
with the men who untuck their shirts after a long day's work
unaware of what the women have been up to
is priceless

you can't commodify what you can't touch

they are not beds waiting for you
to lay down on
to make your lives easier
while you weigh down upon ours

her silk sheet skin
and the comfort of knowing she will be there at 2pm and 2am

this is her home
this body is an address
it is not your residence
loiterers will be fined
she will be fine

power pose
the power grows
this is your power prose
because mama,
you will be fine

Stringent to lilly livered
Toxic if afraid,
galling to goers
Who thrive on being brave,
Enthralling to observers
Who see finer tones,
And fatal to loiterers
With shrapnel in bones.
Loose lips in the war zone
An anathema to we
Who strive for control
In adversity.
Loose lips in the war zone
A systems relapse,
Which preceeds establishment's
Rapid collapse.


Marshalg
@the bach
11 May 2011

“Beyond the Last Lamp”
                            (Near Tooting Common)


By Thomas Hardy

                                 I

While rain, with eve in partnership,
Descended darkly, drip, drip, drip,
Beyond the last lone lamp I passed
                 Walking slowly, whispering sadly,
                 Two linked loiterers, wan, downcast:
Some heavy thought constrained each face,
And blinded them to time and place.


                                II


The pair seemed lovers, yet absorbed
In mental scenes no longer orbed
By love’s young rays. Each countenance
                 As it slowly, as it sadly
                 Caught the lamplight’s yellow glance,
Held in suspense a misery
At things which had been or might be.


                                III


When I retrod that watery way
Some hours beyond the droop of day,
Still I found pacing there the twain
                 Just as slowly, just as sadly,
                 Heedless of the night and rain.
One could but wonder who they were
And what wild woe detained them there.


                                IV


Though thirty years of blur and blot
Have slid since I beheld that spot,
And saw in curious converse there
                 Moving slowly, moving sadly
                 That mysterious tragic pair,
Its olden look may linger on—
All but the couple; they have gone.


                V


Whither? Who knows, indeed. ... And yet
To me, when nights are weird and wet,
Without those comrades there at tryst
                 Creeping slowly, creeping sadly,
                 That lone lane does not exist.
There they seem brooding on their pain,
And will, while such a lane remain.

To drop the latch and your belongings,
to say 'put down tomorrow's feat,
put down the tune of yesterday,
put down what calls away your
attention from the endless breadth
of now' - to drop the latch and slot
the key neatly in and not be reminded
of the worst *** of your life, to
look down at your shoes and not be
in a montage flashback of every
game of tennis last summer
when each stroke was a delayed rebuttal
from arguments before, the manly swipes,
the posed sliding on asphalt,
the gathering of ***** found sunbathing
with the brown baking weeds,
to run a mile and feel every jolt
and not imagine a face to run from,
and not pretend there is an
amalgamated idol of petrified lovers
just past the traffic lights, to not
invent telepathy and play it like a game,
reading the negativity in the loiterers
outside the post office across the road.
To see a mirror and forget to ignore it.
To watch the face in perfect humble
clarity, to see it as a friend would,
to say okay on a daily basis to the eyes,
to see for the first time their glory-
colour, to be okay without repressing,
to drink a glass of sauvignon blanc
without accompany on a Thursday morning
because the work rota allows the luxury.
To turn the television off.
to back into the night because you must,
to back into the night so you cannot
***** your way with hands, to keep
reversing and to watch what you pass
and to only stop when necessary, and
even then not for long, and turn around
and give thanks to walls and tripwires--

in the morning, with nobody there to know,
to take off all your clothes and then
that final layer, to be devastated
by the contours of another's, though
it may be only memory, to be distracted
by a speck of thought and start again,
to be one day older and to never age.

I want to sit on the banks of the Xi Jiang
Even if I am not connected to it in any way,
Yet.
I want to follow the west wind
Go to shadowy depths of cities, toss up ideas on mankind-
To opine about messages secretly received- opinions we’ve debated and have
Yet to.
I want to go where the lake has dried
Giddy when I dream of dropped treasure left behind- value, poor loiterers have
Yet to find.
I want to seek orange rinds
And follow them through the journey of tossed away remains
Protectors once, you know, in times of yesterday
I too have lost and have
Yet to preserve a place.
I want to peak through broken venetian blinds
Spy on sneaking criminals and discuss intentions
See how motives coincide
They entwine and have
Yet to preserve a place to fit in.
Where they are exactly how they perceive themselves, no chagrin
But, where they’re also still dreaming.

i was a hermit for so long: i wasn't expecting to
be so sturdy when being thrown
against a sea of people...
     was it work? i'd consider a carpenter to be
working, i'd consider a plumber
to be working... i don't think i was working...
but i'll be paid for me... sweaty feet aching
as they curl on the way home...
i don't think i was working: i was.... loitering...
but at the same time...
my mind took to an expanse...
i was studying people, coworkers & people...
i only had a minor role in this team
of stewards & security guards...
some of my coworkers took the laissez-faire
approach... i took some initiative:
i implored two guy drinking beer on the way
to the stadium to put their cans away:
to drink up... minutes prior i saw how...
the hierarchy dynamic of uniforms changes
when two women dressed as police-officers
could enforce more power...
they forced two other drinkers of the sacred liquid
to drink up and dispose their bottles...
when i made a similar suggestion...
the guys kept on drinking, walking,
but took note of my recommendation...
one of my coworkers: a complete leech:
cigarettes, free food, free travel...
how?! asked me whether i get angry easily?
she pretended to spot me tense up?
for ****'s sake: either i am in uniform or i'm not!
i need to get that ticket, move up the hierarchy
to get away from this slouch-loiterers...

i message i sent to one of my readers makes
perfect summary of my "predicament":

hello... yeah, it was fun, a walk in the park...
i've been such a hermit for such a long time that
being thrown into a sea of people,
i almost forgot how amiable people can be
when they're working together,
i don't mean when people congregate publically,
but when you're part of a team...
everyone seems to want things to go
as smoothly as possible, esp. when dealing with
entertaining a stadium sized crowd,
i spent so much of my youth concentrating on writing...
returning to work... guess what...
i don't know what Bukowski implied
by the drudgery of work... work is rather refreshing...
although the following words are infamous:
arbeit macht frei...
there's a cruel joke outside their original
implications as they were lifted above
the gates of the inferno...
that there was only a parody of work
in concentration camps... on the contrary...
outside that ****** period of history...
work really does alleviate... the drudgery of life.

the co-owner of this outfit of security
started his life as a career military man before
the age of 18... you can spot a man pretending to be all
alpha... strong handshake... loads of stories
from his personal life... of course the women will listen,
be amazed...

i helped with one Indian girl with her clip on tie...
i helped her with zipping up her newly gained
coat for the job... she went into the toilet
i was matthew the coat-hanger...
i don't how many subjects we covered...
the military man somehow picked up an "accent"...
that i was foreign... i'm 35... minus 8 years...
oh yeah... England is so foreign to me...
we later joked about it with the English girl:
she said she was born in England
when he asked her... so you're British...
obviously i am still not British: since i haven't been
born here...
so much for being white among whites...
**** this, **** that...
oi oi... bravado through & through...
oh how he abhorred the term ****...
sure... but i turn to say it with a prefix hyphen...
****-
   i.e. -stani... i speaking the ****- lazily...
like i might term someone Afghani...
& not... Afghanistani... which is incorrect...

Shiva's third eye... the bindi...  oh but it's banter...
the superior is making insinuations...
beautiful girls in Kiev... Kiev is like London...
but you head outside of Kiev... beautiful girls...
thick as **** though...
           oh i was in Rwanda...
   i was in Thailand... close call in the Maldives...
there's only so many times you can **** your wife...
i tell my Indian companion:
i sometimes i undertook a career life in
the military... alas... i went to university...
the banter will has to pass...
we all know it...
i don't have an underlying ****** accent...
she even noted it...
i explained it to... he's a military man...
he might have been banned from Dubai etc.
a real man of the world...
because of his credentials as ex-military...
oh the posturing...
go outside of London and what sort of girls
will you find?
******* Sappho or Casandra?!

            stupid... eh... i wouldn't call country-folk:
i'd call them: enough informed...
why? i can appreciate the docile life...
i can appreciate straying from the urban
hyper-informed... isn't it solipsism?
oh yeah... you were ****** over in the past
two world wars...
at least you chose the right side...
sure... the Polacks really had a choice about
the right side... wasn't it Britain that declared
war on Germany after the invasion...
"we", ahem, "chose"... the "right side"?!

if we chose the "right side"... why did the western
powers allow us to become swallowed by
the Soviet power?!
why didn't we receive Marshall Plan funding
(Sweden did, Sweden was ******* neutral!)
Poland was rebuilt thanks to communism...
you never lived under it, so you'll never know...
****'s sake... i sometimes think of going full out
hermit once more...
two of my coworkers i could barely understand...
they spoke English... natives to Lancashire
and... **** knows where:
i couldn't ******* understand them...
it would be made easier if they were Scots!

Mr Military Boss Man was intimidated by...
i used to visit the Edinburgh comedy club from time
to time... one of the comedians would start off his
gig with the following:
you might recognise my accent... it's educated...
my accent is rather that... urban universal...
which is very much different to what locals speak...
well... perhaps not outside of Devonshire...
but you get my point...
my Indian coworker also noted it...
you have an accent?
   so i explained the education part...
not from some ivory tower position...
but if a military man is going to nag you over... crumbs...
you'll make a sly joke...

smoothly does is... thanks for the strong handshake...
Fulham vs. Derby ended a 0 - 0 score...
i managed to spot Wayne Rooney in the team coach...
two corporates gave us match programmes with
signatures of two players...

this wasn't work... i'd be working if i were a plumber...
i was loitering...
then again: i was also studying people...
i think that's sort-of-work...
how people operate... rather a curious adventure...

blurry, some faces in the crowd seemingly recognised
me... not in an approachable way...
they seemed so... stunned... almost frightened:
as if they saw me in their dreams...

there ought to be a word for this phenomenon...
i will not coin it... it's still better as an abstract...
a whisper of Marcus Aurelius' return to the republic
of Rome...
the term reads:
i'm not famous...
  but people recognise you...
as if they saw you in their dreams...
& there you are, all flesh & blood...
standing before them...
how strangely their faces read: what, i'm not supposed
to be here?!
were you expecting someone else?

my Indian companion was apprehensive about
curating the Bishop's Park...
i implored her: look... the park is most beautiful
come the night... no one is here!
i like that look on people's faces...
you begin to wonder: have we met in your dreams?

they look absolutely stunned... since they recognise
you... not from t.v., not from adverts...
there are so little of them but enough to allow
you to spot this... jolt in the fabric of reality:
we must met in the realm of dreams...
quarter-petrified quarter-curious...
quarter-stone based.. an eighth-fire based...
an eighth-water based...
          i'm investing in a future i will not be part
of... may i be long gone from these abodes
before i might be finally recognised:
and even then, i hope i will not be...
now that i've seen how my coworkers react
to fame... i said to the leech:
i don't get it... the cult of celebrity... sure...
it's amazing what these people do...
but in doing... they're no more being than i'm being...
i can truly appreciate David Beckham
bending it like... said... at a free-kick...
but David Beckham per se? really?
do i have to? that same ****** conundrum of:
you must appreciate the work
of an artist: but not the artist himself...

i can play all nice... but then i'll suddenly visit
a brothel: when prompted by grooming one
of my cats.... when she raises her ****...
then again... what i get up to in a brothel is my business....
hardly any ****** or leather invoked...
wholesome *******, if wholesome ******* bothers you...
i know... the only game left to play in the realm
of adulthood... the dynamics of ***...
it's hardly: hide & seek...
*** is ugly when outside the act itself it has
to take these pseudo-political inferences...

i know today i was merely a pawn... but was i?
on paper... sure...
i have ambitions elsewhere,
income on the sly... i'll do x, y, & z...
but i'll also do a, b & c...
          work... **** me: if this is "work" then all
life's a joke...
the Indian gall was saying... to be a barrister you
need to be an old white male...
i refrained... from a more concrete answer....
old white males... like... beached whales?
like dolphin is the "other" white meat?
did she know how genealogical ambition works?
your father was X... your grandfather was X...
you're going to be also, X...
i said: as long as the system of meritocracy works...
you can't avoid certain hurdles...
life is bound to throw you set-backs...

forget about race... it works the same in India
with the caste system...
i'm pretty content with not...
earning too much... that's synonymous with
not having to spend more than is necessary...
you earn more = you spend more...
i don't need to earn in order to explore excesses
of expenditure...
enough: is enough...
i don't need to peacock around this *******
palace of the urban jungle...
i spotted one femme fatale with a Spanish type...
what was he talking about?
video games... look at her...
what a bombshell... oh well... not my partake...

i don't want to know what people want...
i want to know what people deserve,
what must be required of people...
fear, absolvement from duty...
             faking honesty...
   i want to peer at this frothing tide when
they congregate... i don't want to see the individual...
i want to see the entire: whole, ugly... parody of man!

yes, that's what i want to see...
not the uniqueness of man, per se or via a studied example...
i want to compound man into a whole:
put a decoder on his remarks, actions, wholeness...
to later apply a cipher to him...
confuse him a little.... entertain him a while...

that's what i want...
how i yearn to fathom this little corner of a non-existent world...
non-existent in that it's psychic...
in the flow of the crowd i sort of imagined myself
famous... i was merely a pawn...
not that i was famous in "real life": rather...
the ****** expression read:
i saw you in my dreams!

i can count 5 fingers on my hand...
yeah... the same number i arrived at...
that's enough...

in mein garten, kommen sie: die nacht:
ich blühen!
                                   ich leben!
ich bin! mich selber!
                    alles ist güt!
alles: ist... meisten erschreckend! ja...

oh high praise for me... spotting a Serbian flag, when
asked...