Ice, ice, baby

On the insides of our windows
there are feathers
that burn a little if you touch them.
We brave the tickle of pain
to draw rudimentary faces that grin blankly
and cartoon cocks to amuse
the strangers in the wind.

We’ve got to get some booze!
It’s the only solution to this intense cold!
We revel in it, pose with rubber gloves
pretending this is the cold and poverty
of Camden in nineteen sixty nine
and not of here and now.

We do it on our way home too.
Such rebels! Such vandals!
Wearing beer jackets and gin scarves
in the slippery darkness
our breath hangs still
and with numb fingers
we tear through feathers
writing – I fuck arses!
in a speech bubble on the driver’s side.

We play at pretending to be actors
demanding fine wines with false dignity and ambition
and I slide
crashing on the ice
it blows my performance
and I lie on my back
and stare at the stars.