lady day...

void, filled with concrete, filled with a heartbeat
of dazed filament still burning...
...the yelling rises around the streets, and
also within those jutting by: thinking of a dead
kitten, just fallen sausage rolls, Argentine
neighbours attracting spouses, time away in exile
without the tropisms of tedium... a winged head
gripping at lips extended towards the sky with the
ornament of insanity herding gesticulations now
circumventing another body, at odds to will...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
BATTERY LOW
...an old Turkish lady holding long shards
of breads in a black plastic bag moves by,
anxiously trying not to pay attention to what is
occurring, where else a man against the railings
close to Melania is eating Baklava, just watching
as if at a screen; eyes quietly peering and then at a
lady with a large pair of breasts sitting in a
burgundy blouse practically jogs past as the taste
of lemon hits the back of the throat, and simmers
over the anger, deceit, melancholy... the oceans of
bodies swell with disparate persuasions mostly
censored, mostly cut short... a woman wearing a
bright red jacket walks by speaking of a trip to
Hackney Baths, where a leering man can't get
enough of her supple body...
...an old lady, a Grandma perhaps, peers
from within a flat above a near empty Coffee
shop, scowling, until she moves out to the small
balcony, half watching, half drinking from a cup...
the creases in her neck fold like a chicken's, hung
10