5.30 city

I take bits of the city into my wrists,
the tattoo across my jugular - necklace names me Norwich.
The wet pavement of my back is all horses running from routine –
the crisis hooves in the attic of my hypothalamus
make districts of memory.

Get me piercings on place names
permanent ink of lamplight,
keep me clean street sweeper,
all across this country its raining –
shout out history – don't mutter economy of nanny state recycling
I don't want to see the news, all mosaic of misery,
for god's sake give me meat stalls, postcodes, market sweat in
knee cap, sing to me city – love the live way of being.

Oh conglomourates of commercialism –
kneel to the gravestones
press your pity tomato heart
into the eyelid glow of the ground.
No one will look for it and the bins
will be brimming with white socks and fox teeth.

The shops shut up face
with metal brace and till ring
like a lover packing laundry
and the bathos of 5.30 creeps back in to body tissue
wrist and thinking.