There’s fire outside, fire in my apartment.
Swelling in this humidity.
More uncomfortable than Vietnam.
It is not easy to hide.
Even sitting on the roof writing poems,
there is fire.

A thousand words yet to write,
a thousand words yet to write.
Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas.
Dancing dragonflies,
ascending and descending.
Like a madness of Sisyphus.

And then the sounds of this fire.
The bedroom sounds, a taste that will last forever.
The sounds of the late night Baijiu drinkers,
trying to find the garden of love.
And the unrequited who cry alone at 2a.m
Endless, embracing with a glad sadness.

That is the fire in this city.

Back in Xinxiang
the coffee tastes good.
'The Carpenters' are signing about love,
which becomes lost in time.
Never to be smooth again.

Deep inside, a spring longing.
A shadow still wedged between the rocks, and the rising spring river.
Seared into my aching bones.
Always to linger,
and never to be free.

The music stops, it always does.
Vaguely, I hear a sound....
        ..... a sweet voice
..... a distant voice
“Come close, and follow me.....”

Pulled into a violet world,
surrounded by the noise of our origin.
I see you...
and my unfinished flight.

6am in Xinxiang
Only the ants,
hardworking, lovesick and confused
occupy the spaces
between the common lines.
The street lights shine
in the black gutter by the road.

The moon, in constant conflct,
still up in the morning.
Greets the eye as reflections blaze.

And me,  still on my bed,
I look through my window.
The same still things,
Hopes in shining light
right outside these bars.

The few stars left, punctuate
this blissful solitude.
Time alone to heal
I lost so much in so little time.

The last day of the year
was cold……another art form lost in translation.
And hardly anything as beautiful
as the sun setting in Xinxiang.

I went for coffee with my friend.
We drank and talked about the picture
of Kurt Cobain on the wall,
and how he blew his brains out.

I told her that Hemingway
went the same way.
And that he was a concrete man.

The girl next to us told me to “be quite”,
she felt I was too loud.
I answered in the negative, and told her
“This is my world as well”.
It was only a moment.

Soon we will both be asleep
and only the shadows will remain
For some reason, I thought of Guernica
and dreams falling from the sky.

So I wished my friend a
‘Happy New Year’, and suggested that she
read more Bukowski next year.

0:2:45 in Xinxiang
19:45 in Kiev
Waking before the alarm sounds.
An old poet lifts his eye,
and quits his lagging dream.
Come on Liverpool.

The Red Army expects
England expects.
We, who are English now watch CCTV5.
While others sleep in their beds,
dividing rich fields from doors of dark
and grimy alleys.

After every moment
Someone has to clean up.
Old ideas thrown away
New ones, emerge
Hidden, waiting.
For the street cleaners
of Xinxiang.
To recall the way it was.
Discarded remnants of
rusted arguments.
Litter the streets.
Each blade of grass a
compare and contrast,
a cause and effect.

For those who know less.
The days are painted in
remembered harsh light.
Like a slow passing train
it seems to never end.
But in this haunted twilight,
their are some determined
to look for comfort.
Not to you.

There was a time in Xinxiang
when you you could find good coffee and solitude.

The place was 'Jumping Bean' Cafe
At a crossroads of the sick and those who drank their first glass of Baijiu before 8am.

I would go when the clouds parted
and the sun first appeared through the curtains.

It was the best time to go.
No banging or rat telling stories.
Or fat hands and bright red noses, crawling home
after another business lunch with the young girls.

Once I met a tall slim woman, almost as tall as me. She wore high heels and high spirits.
And yet walked alone on the hot pathways of summer.

Another time, I met an old man
Who told me he had the power to ****** any woman in China.
I thought he must have the power of the Gods.
And wanted to know his secrets.

Now, Jumping Bean is closed.
And the dregs walk past.
A hurrying dust, looking for a perfect blackness.