how the sun brings the mad out

how the sun brings the mad out

the heat hits
like a tyre iron
to the back of my neck.
i sag early.

people who have not washed their hair before,
talk to their hands.

around me,
people in stained shirts
stare into the sky.

people with hands made of leaflets
try to peel away their skin,
and palm it off, on passers by.

overhead,
doves racing on sky delight
encourage us to stop – stop
for a moment.

the majority of people don’t.

a man in a corner,
faces inward
as he plays a dirty saxophone,
the notes lost,
as they clamber up and inside a drainpipe.
where they will wait,
until a storm breaks
and they can spoon jazz rain
into the gutter.

and the church has a new sign:
keen to lasso the lost
they are open for FREE tea today.
open in the same way
a hot, airless tomb stays open,
for one more lay down.

a man the colour of strawberries
shouts at crowds.
his angry fists tight like baby hands.
his words thrown away as litter,
in a language only he understands.

around the bus-stops,
a human jam oozes into cracks
in the pavement.

i find something
desperately sad,
in the sight of corn plasters
flapping over the back of a sandal
like a strangled tongue.

and over there,
pressed to a baking shop-front,
the sun-mad, cling to betting slips
like the last clifftop
their life ever held.

as others pull on cigarettes
with a fury, eyes widening
with the strain.

and burning,
in an unseasonable heat,
this entire city
feels forever,
as they sag to their feet.