"mayfair" poems
He told me he stopped smoking.
Threw away the packs of Mayfair
into the river next to his house.
The river where we once spent the evening
talking about why stars align the way they do,
As if they know what they are doing.
Neither of us knows what we are doing.
We are tea stained maps,
And fragile lungs,
And he is bruised fingertips from writing ‘I don’t love you. I’m sorry.’
I am shallow breaths in early winter.
Waking up at five to five to wait for the sun to rise.
He is made of sugar cubes
And campfires;
Glowing in the dead of the night
As if they have a right
To be the main attraction.
We are 3am scribbles in notebooks
And origami warriors.
You folded me so easily
With your piano playing fingers.
And when I wasn’t looking,
You made me into a boat and pushed me onto that same river.
Lit matches for a sail and finally, let me burn.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
"Werewolves Of London"
I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for the place called Lee ** Fook's
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Werewolves of London
If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London
He's the hairy handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor
Werewolves of London
Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect
Werewolves of London again
Draw blood
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
In the hanging kitchen, the smell-
cut cayenned sausage, ejective tomato slices
the whole thing in the back of the throat, inflamed.
Olive oil. Vinegar. Billie talks about her "girl
friend." She lives in Mayfair. (Almost pretty;
don't look too long.)
At times I feel sick.
American man he
strikes the figure of a half-God
broad-shouldered, burned
he does Not exist, John Henry
split his bust long ago and we
are huddled small boys imperfect
in the dust of his legacy.
Our fathers stood from dinner tables kissed
wives were kissed by children one last sip of old
wines and walked into the night looking
for burned-up lamps, the memories of mountains.
Ate stone. Drank mist.
(A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.)
Fell into the grit, the failure, fell
into everything.
(Little else has taste once the spice of life is on your tongue.)
I have nothing but my understanding.
I want to be swaddled, paralytically blind, shamelessly loved.
Or to go out in the wicker
world, there to find whatever our best
died looking for, tigers or ruins or
a life after adventure.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:43 AM UTC
Un vischio, fin dall'infanzia sospeso grappolo
di fede e di pruina sul tuo lavandino
e sullo specchio ovale ch'ora adombrano
i tuoi ricci bergére fra santini e ritratti
di ragazzi infilati un po' alla svelta
nella cornice, una caraffa vuota,
bicchierini di cenere e di bucce,
le luci di Mayfair, poi a un crocicchio
le anime, le bottiglie che non seppero aprirsi,
non più guerra né pace, il tardo frullo
di un piccione incapace di seguirti
sui gradini automatici che ti slittano in giù….
1.6k
***Im living from a suitcase now
somewhere in the city***
I still think about her every day
and how she is so pretty
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 8:34 PM UTC
Sat in the doorway,
a throwaway man with a
cigarette and beer can
and a hangdog look on his face.
In this city of wealth,poverty takes some by stealth,
those who are healthy and fit often don't give a shit,it's not them in the doorway,they cannot see themselves brought down so low,
but go down to Mayfair or Stepney or Bow,there's a tidal flow of the throwaway men,who have nowhere to stay and if they do, then,
there is no job for them,no way to earn
and the cigarette burns,the beer can is crushed, a bit like the throwaways beaten and rushed to an end.
The end is an end by no means,
to the hungry and needy
who watch as the well fed and greedy go by,who sigh through the day in a throwaway kind of a throwaway way,
but it's what people expect from the 'workshy' and worthless,the cesspit of the city, and life does not pity them,nor do the throwaway men really care,
sitting there
in the doorway
where there seems no way
to escape.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
There once was a woman named Mrs Bess
Who couldn't find her own address
She got slightly confused on the way there
And ended up at a village this side of Mayfair
Not being able to find her address stressed Mrs Bess
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
*and i smiled into my father’s face and eyes
when i wrote this, and he set off to work
and i set off to bed to sleep off
having fed the hangover to appear by noon of what i thought
to be the next day... :)
indeed i did feel lazy being a poet and not being a
journalist. and i know the dead poets' society
still lives on! it still lives on! even though he was an actor,
the dead poets' society still lives on!
but i still have my father's strength at 6am as a roofer
than the weakness of a poet at 6am in wish to be
a roofer - most of the agonies of man are explained by the strenghts / “apathies” of animals... who share none of our sensible inquests of the new arrival proclaimed as lord of mannor but the corner stone / messiah of our turnip pyramid constructed by eager termites... we have none of such composure between mammal and lizard... we then in pretence rule animal with man’s fake prosthetic heart as heart of hierarchy and as above? when with as an above no above we dare believe in, surely?! of what heart does serve and of what heart could serve, only the sensual it does, serve, and no other in the realm of the heart’s intent to think exchange heart for mind and allow mind the feeling enclosure of not thinking. what then? i mind my poetry is weakened such and such takes of what could never be mistook: but you know how a masculine profession was mistook for a feminine one? it only took a mother and a builder to say they differed: the builder’s mother said the hammer in sense, while the mother’s sunday am simply said, the nails frequent the builder’s hammer less than my son’s tears my husband’s eyes, even thought that thety do.... as i too wish robin williams was my english teacher... but... really... wasn’t #hatealcoholicsmuk -
but then i heard soulfly's tribe:
your tribe our tribe!
your life our life!
your god our god!
your tribe our tribe!
amazon mea culpa mea crux mea ego!*
it’s a shame most of our lives are lived only to anticipate
a said impromptu:
mr. johnny mayfair..
king’s cross the doors are parting
hence you depart;
and so much of life was,
missing the mongol tribe
that would have replaced flatmoor st.
and would have done so with a good intention
and a happy face of he who was a member of...
the mongol tribe... rather than the boredom of
flatmoor st. making it worth a wrinkle to age to 80
and only remember life as having played chess.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
My father who art in heaven
May he be also a masterpiece
Like eleven
May my main man also join the skies
That part the seas like milky lights.
May my man bring with him me
As a tourist of the nightlife.
Wife me up and hold me tight
Like the stars cling onto the duly skies.
May my main man be the mainest of them all
Sure a little mean isn’t bad at all
Nay he never become a Mayfair sayer
Or a naysayer to his wife’s call.
Today I call upon thee
To help me free fall.
Tall and fully
In love with you truly
You are my one and only all.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
My uncle lived in a big old house
At the end of Mayfair Drive,
With thirteen rooms and a library,
Whilst he was still alive.
But he jumped one day from the second floor
And he hit the ground so hard
That his blood spread out like a pair of horns,
There in his own front yard.
We didn’t know why he had to jump,
It wasn’t a lack of cash,
His health was good, but before he jumped
He’d broken out in a rash,
The maid had brought him his morning tea
Had watched him put back a book,
Up on the topmost shelf it went
And he’d said to her, ‘Don’t look!’
The rash spread quickly under his arms
With pustules down in the groin,
The doctor said at the autopsy
That one was shaped like a coin.
‘You’d swear that there was a devil’s head
Imprinted there in his blood,
I’ve never seen anything like it since
And I hope that I never should.’
But my father moved us into the house
Now, with his brother gone,
He locked us out of the library
But went in there on his own.
There were shelves and shelves of books in there
And one on the topmost shelf,
The maid had whispered, ‘You’d best beware!’
But he took it down himself.
I noticed he wore his patent gloves
Whenever he went in there,
I peeped in through a crack in the door
And saw him stand on a chair,
The book was old, had a mouldy look
For the leather was turning green,
It looked like a fungus, taken root,
And the whole thing looked unclean.
As days went by I began to hear
Some babble behind the door,
And incense came in a steady stream
Out from a crack by the floor,
My father didn’t come out for meals
His voice was becoming hoarse,
He’d take a tray at about midday
But never a second course.
The maid resigned on the first of June
She said that she saw his face,
Was shivering uncontrollably
And muttering, ‘Loss of grace!’
The cook took both of us under her wing
And swore that she’d see us fed,
But wouldn’t come out of her tiny room
At dusk, she’d ‘rather be dead!’
The fire broke out in the library
On a Sunday, after Mass,
I caught a glimpse of my father then,
His face was as green as grass,
The shelves and the books had grown a mould
And it spread all over the floor,
I knew I had to get out of there
And ran right out of the door.
My father leapt from the window then
Came crashing down in the drive,
I knew before I got close to him
He couldn’t have been alive.
Two horns spread out from the place his head
Had crumpled into the ground,
But these were horns of a green fungi
Like the book on the shelf he’d found.
They quarantined us around that house
And came with chemical sprays,
‘This fungus seems to be hard to ****
It’s going to take us days!’
They checked the wreck of the library,
I even went in myself,
With everything burnt to a crisp, still lay
A book on the topmost shelf!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
Dismal has became helter skelter
most ladies in Mayfair seem worn
they're tired, waylaid in fur
but its still a man's world then
The soothsayers grin
England lost to Poland in the qualifiers.
The aftershock of the energy crisis
sees new Sheikhs
money rolls like oil,
it buys and buys for some
even for the horses competing
at the London Riding Horse Parade.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
We played our childish game of seven minutes in heaven,
when I knew very well that I should have gone to hell.
We played an endless game of nicky nicky nine doors,
because the floors were lava and we had no where else to go.
Too little hiding and too little seeking to find what we wanted,
or to even run away from what we truly honoured.
We played games like children playing breaking bricks,
trying to break traditions set by parents from years earlier.
We chose to play a 'til we die' game called arranged marriage,
because operation made for a better game than abortion,
and it's all distorted marketing; trying to sell parkinsons-
to veterans with medicine prices sky rocketing.
We lived in a time where playing cops and robbers
meant playing tax offices trying to honour tax on coffins.
Take the heinous nature of human and discount it forward,
we are not all as evil as we seem, but we still play jump rope
with the sensitive lines hidden behind media's eyes,
we play jump rope with politics because it was always fun-
to lunge up the ladder in a game of snakes and ladders.
We all played at monogamy like it was a game of monopoly,
constantly competing for marriage like it was Mayfair on the board.
We've boarded on a train of imagination with fetishes and kinks,
trying to rethink what the ordinary could never provide,
and I admit, i lost in the game called tinder but I don't lose sleep
knowing I haven't matched with someone who swiped right.
We built campfire out of torches because there's still a light
in the horse **** we go through on a daily basis,
and we hold our tragic faces trying to compete with the sob stories
of modern day Romeo and juliet's because what's best is beyond us.
So I tire of playing Simon Says when I know quite well that
we play duck duck goose with bullets and guns hoping the fun
doesn't reach us too soon because there's still some fun in funeral.
We played our childish game of seven minutes in heaven,
when I knew very well that I should have gone to hell.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 11:34 PM UTC
Wonder down Mayfair on a busy afternoon
There in all its beauty lies a shop
Where succulent pastries are served
And cakes that ooze the simple delights of life
Established in 1854 and a survivor of two world wars
A national treasure never honoured
It leaves a lasting taste
The owner is a little Italian gent
Named Romeo which is quite quaint
A ***** named Nigel sits underneath the window
Begging for food or some change
And this is where the magic takes place
Cause Romeo truly shows his heart
When he gives Nigel a large sticky eclair
He then tends to his customers modestly
The police never move the man named Nigel
Cause Romeo wants the sign of the times to stay
Not to be moved from under the window
Of his Old Cake Shop in the heart of busy Mayfair
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
The sound of a pin dropping on tin could be heard,
without a word
she came in and she ordered
a gin
and the beginning began to unfold.
She was old, maybe older,I was cold
she was colder but the alcohol soon warmed
her through.
Her name was Susan,Sue for short and
she was up for some sport,
The question that I asked was,
was I?
The evening flew by
there was a gleam in her eye
there was fear in my heart,
I said, 'goodbye',
she said
'let's not part'
she wanted something to start
I wanted something to end
she attacked
I tried to defend but in
the end which I did not see,
she took me to an
ecstasy.
Pinned against a fantasy
and no one
heard me fall.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
I feel like we've been walking
these streets forever. My hand
in yours, my heart beating like a
****** clock, the smell of ***
Marlboro and Mayfair
kissing my collar
I inhale the perfume,
the chemical reactions of
our flesh touching, feel the
electricity shoot through my
body
Exhale slowly, letting the breath
linger on my lips for a second
the air between our mouths
glows red with hunger
But we're not giving it up
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
The squire and me see
eye to eye
I bow and scrape as
he goes by and
kiss his feet
but
he is the one that lives
on easy street
has a butler too
one day
it will be me you see
when we see eye to eye
and
I will be the
squire that you watch
as
I go passing by.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
I saw you in the light of the Mayfair sun
And the sky cracked open
Wide, and blinding
Bigger than the whole city
Deeper than lighting striking a valley
Hot white silver as my heart
As holy as the ocean
With no end, and no clear start
Velvet like the lines in your palms
Breathtaking as the thread we’re hanging on
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
Late at night, body's yearning
Restless night, want to be with you
Someone's playing in the garden
So enticing, sure to take a bite
I don't what's come over me...
So I'm saying...
Baby baby, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Got me out of bed, heard you call my Name
What's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Tell me, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?
My Heart, My Soul,
My Love has got to go...
It's a thrill, of my will... (shall I?)
Be misled, be for real?
Thought I knew her, this lady
Th' Illusionist, misled...
Always searching for adventure
Like Pandora's box, misled
And I don't what I'm going to do...
My Mayfair...
Baby baby, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Got me out of bed, heard you call my Name
What's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Tell me, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?
And...
My Heart, And My Soul,
And My Love, has got to go...
It's a thrill, of our will...
My misled, won't you be for real?
I got this feeling that's making its way,
But I'll love her just the same, just the same...
Mislead, heard you call my Name,
Mislead, what's your claim to th' Flame?
Mislead, took me by the hand,
Mislead, said I would understand,
Mislead, of all my broken dreams,
Mislead, the now of the world is not what it seems,
Mislead, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Mislead, got me out of bed, do you believe in the Name?
Mislead, what's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Mislead, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?
Mislead,
Mislead...
Baby baby, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Got me out of bed, heard you call my Name
What's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Tell me, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?
My Heart, My Soul,
My Love has got to go...
It's a thrill, of our will? (Shall we...)
Be mislead? And be lost forevermore?
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
i sometimes wear sunglasses
while listening to music st night...
helps to block out the constellations...
as i've found one strange similarity
between Islamic culture
and western pop culture -
sunglasses -
and the niqab - inversion -
i.e.:
so... are you're telling me...
all these celebrities have Asperger's syndrome?
you know... the eyes that can't
really focus on a smile...
rat-eyed, darting as if trapped
in a maze?
so much for ****** expression...
could perhaps read a smile,
second to none to the none
of a fake...
isn't the practice of wearing
sunglasses akin to the Islamic
face covering?
the eyes are...
windows of the soul...
or... what a ****** expression
beneath a niqab looks like...
if i'd want a mannequin
to smile at me...
i'd ask a gay asking a Muslim
woman to smile from beneath her veil...
but then i'd ask a mannequin first,
and only the mannequin...
so all these celebrities
donning sunglasses
attempting to catch
UV copper coating
pretending to be on a beach...
in on something?
but they are replicating
the niqab...
oddly enough...
it's plain and simple
poker...
no ****** features -
but also no soul -
i can't exactly read either
guise...
i need both the eyes
as i might also need the ****** contortion...
the origin story is just the same...
but i guess all those people
wearing sunglasses must
be autistic -
hard at keeping eye-contact...
plenty of smiling going
on...
but when it comes to eye-contact?
terrible "malware"...
as that other western niqab
surrounding desirable women...
not even on the streets of Mayfair -
west London -
locked up in a Rapunzel tower...
i've seen more dogs walking freely -
even though they might still
tend to be leashed...
but the use of sunglasses
as is currently used?
hiding behind a veil -
contorting and faking ******
exfoliation like that -
making the awry smile?
with eyes in the shade,
autistic and darting everywhere
other than the receiving
face of the interviewee?
then the sort of women
you see on the street,
in plain daylight, and evening -
free to go as they please?
not exactly model material -
not ugly - no woman is ugly -
at best, a woman can only be:
neglected...
i see...
two forms of a pre-Islamic niqab...
one is definitely spatial -
a prison cell...
the other?
less a pure womanly constraint...
more...
the audacity project for
autistic children; sunglasses.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
you never know what
the next day will bring,
but, like today,
i became disappointed
and the amount
of letters i received
by mail...
in the past 10 years,
i received only bank
statements,
alumni magazines from
edinburgh and u.c.l.,
oh, and those two
letters (+ a book) from a
girl from warsaw...
but today?
i look at the counter
and see this letter for me...
but that's the odd thing,
i've never had contact
with harrington & byrne:
hanover sq., mayfair
(W1S 1BN)...
the **** do they want
i thought while opening
the envelope...
ah... i knew it, ********
buying the 1840
penny black postage stamp
with queen victoria aged 15,
for a "mere"
one hundred and twenty
quid...
but that's good...
they also sell gold & silver
coins...
i'll phone them up
or write to them, and ask them
about my collection
of foreign currency -
you never know,
those polish banknotes
from the inflation period
prior to the collapse of the soviet
union might be worth
something akin
to the excess of zeroes written
on them;
**** you think i'd be making
this up googling the brand?
like i said...
**** me... my email account is
even better...
i have
about a total of 20 emails
in it...
either i'm covert,
or invisible,
or "worse" still,
a persona non grata;
mmm... bliss!
saying that: it's nice to receive
the most random letters...
ACTUAL PAPER!
sooner or later, you'll get perverts
roaming the streets,
with a sheet of paper
in their hand... rubbing it between
their fingers...
as you'll get those perverts
sniffing ink-cartridge, once loaded
into fountain-pens -
can you remember the days
of chalk & blackboards?
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 6:14 PM UTC