the trippy moments
that made up a day
two french rasta hippies
with rad moustaches gathered change
in a quick exchange
before jumping on the bus
and off again
at woodstock avenue
woodstock avenue
man, the view,
from above was near perfect
even on the surface
nothing close to ordinary
from above was near perfect
even on the surface
nothing close to ordinary
the carvings in the mud temple
in Wembley, the hole in the wall
an entertainment centre, all flash and secret
the broken little huts from the past
on either side of the tiny waterfall
the roofs were all
caving in
caving in
the tin cans were dented in sin
and brent town hall
memories of a wedding crashed
and getting lost in the woods at night
alone, as ever,
the yellow sludgy stream
another toxic dream
the empty beautiful pergola
almost unreal, completely deserted,
the setting purple sun
the flashes from a camera
that old restaurant owner who always
calls them darling in his posh
anglo-indian accent
anglo-indian accent
and writing poetry
outside the poetry library at night
this
outside the poetry library at night
this
and never going inside
and getting in trouble for sleeping
pan-londonism-souf, norf, west and the rest
and latin american music
smoother than smooth
and more images than anyone can ever make
sense of
like those two raggedy bums
sat together ever close
watching a tiny prehistoric scream
while grooming their long beards
and the 83 bus past that yellow building
retracing steps
the stadium
and places never known to exist
to exit
now
the trippy moments that make up a day
a hundred thousand to make up a life
girl what do you say?
-----------------------------------------london----------
----------is---------------weird----------------
