emerging into the grapey light of 7am
to a street of doggerel, grinning ribaldly
past old lamp posts with fresh cables trailing
and a shattered life from last night
lying as windscreen glass across
the camber of the road.
Twinkling, reflecting and so do I,
on
approach to its pioneering offspring.
Here, there are no tumbleweeds to blow
and wedge in wooden doorways
nor one Plexiglas bubble home from which to appear
silver-suited, smirking, overflowing with technology.
Doesn’t seem likely those skateboarders
will explode into strains of Ohhhh-klahoma
at my approach
nor wield capes, astutely contemplating Yorick’s skull
unless he supersedes Def Jam as a House label.
Am I Crusader, invader, or refugee, if I take my life elsewhere?
The liberty I escape to is far more euphoric
than spaghetti western, sci-fi, musical or melodrama
- dances its slamdance, high on the smell of paint
from my fingertips -
as I execute a Dadaist statement
or is it a Surrealist 21st century one-off
smashing a Smartie to smithereens
and scorching down an
suitcase in tow, two kids, and a one-way ticket,
unrepentant.
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