This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.


We were trading boot polish on the curb
I say the curb it was the edge of something
A train platform
or a roof
he ground his teeth and I could hear grains of enamel
I lent in and tried to catch his eye
his air was warm with booze
and he snorted like a bull
again my shin stung
so I let him have my toe
twisted so that my knee hit him in the thigh as well
he moaned and bent for a moment
he answered
laying both hand on my shoulders and really swinging
I felt the blood running down my shin
the tram arrived
so I freed myself
and said good bye
who is this man?
who first corned me on rigaer st in the frost and tried to kiss me
and now gave me a scab
I watch him through the window
as he tried to recover a beer from the floor  but stumbles and falls.


Everyday I wake up and my first thought is
I want to go to a war zone'
But I am pale and burn in the sun
and the wars have migrated from Europe
Outside my window clouds are swallowing up the trains
and I wish that they were carrying ammo to the front
that they were carrying white boys
with milk in bottles and sandwiches wrapped in hankies
mushed in pockets
along the rails to ditches and mudslides and the whistling that cracks edges off tin helmets
the trains are full of tourists
with thighs warm from laptops
to ignore it would make me mad
mad crazy
to walk down the stairs now with my old coat pulled over my head
to protect me from the peeling paint work
and drink a bottle of something unlabelled in the cellar
while the train rattles overhead and shakes the dust from in between the bricks
mixed with dandruff on my shoulders
you're right that would be madness
stark madness