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missing England

once upon a time it was a less informed and all
the more bizarre nostalgia of a child
who dropped out of a purse
with lipstick in the hue of vermillion
and a powdered face, ghostly and somehow
with a suitcase he couldn’t exactly
drop, and burry the 20th century.

now the beer is just fine, fine fine…
much better than the english ales,
and stepping up the mark with the schwabian
pilsens and non-…

do i have any regrets not being able to do
crosswords to a decent standard?
not really, i was never a big fan of
the thesaurus, notably a teasing thesaurus,
after all, crosswords fall in line
with the thesaurus’ criteria…
never a big fan of synonym games,
and the occasional antonym nudge…

over a month away from England
and I’m starting to feel the pinch
of the suburban labyrinth “déjà vu”
of near identical serpents tunneling
and nibbling at the: good and gracious
pastures…

no Wordsworth of me,
but certainly not an urban peacock,
ready to speak to a populist ear
and wake many from a hangover…
or whatever the hell that means…
but the news from England are plain,
one of my acts has utilised the time
in my absence to take over my room,
thing about cats,
at least they don’t slobber all over
you with an immediate high
and the prolonged low of the chore…
spying for affection:
she spends the entire day and night,
either in my writing chair,
or on my bed…
to be honest,
I miss my perch, and sitting in the open
window, drinking and smoking freely,
and that constellation,
which seems to only appear
above England (my reading of
Scorpio):

(catalogue that as a Catalan flying point)

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then again, 40 minutes from the zone 6
outer-urbia
that just kisses and teases the country
i can find myself on Westminster Bridge,
lost among the faces of the citizens
of the world (tourists) and,
quiet simply fade,
hardly asking to find that local bar
that jazz coccon to escape these
passing quasi-nomads…

oddly enough, seeing these people
take pictures,
of monuments, seeing these people
have their pictures taken,
either by loved ones or by strangers…
antithesis of the selfie, hands down,
no doubt unearthed…

can’t exactly snarl at them donning
a cravat, prim, or bowler and a walking
cane in some sort of hardcore plea
for eccentricity…
evidently finding those groove
spots away from the general plebiscite
is one thing, but be in drawn
to these visitors…
i start blending in with
the local architecture:
shit, I’m here too!

and between me and my uncle,
veteran youth émigré,
he pretends to joke about moving
back “home”… i filled out a form for
the identity card…
point being, he calls from England
and we talk about nothing, but the weather
from a week ago…
and I’m nearing being
a month overdue, on my perch…

odd… even in my excesses of drinking
I find no misery, no,
what’s the word? regret…
since I have three exuses…
A. as long as you’re only hurting yourself,
what’s that to others what you do?
zilch, for someone reason drinking
with other people is a miserable affair…
B. eat well…
Parisian pancakes from scratch,
which consist of a decent cut of ham,
and cheese, at 1am…
C. depends how you treat animals…
not that this includes
vegetarian no go zones…
in the vicinity,
like catching mosquitos by their wings
and shoving them out the window…
or petting cats…
not as grandiose and “world changing”
as abolishing
the meat market and the zeal
of those glam bastards at Smithfield.

point C. reiterated:
ever ate a classic broth made from
either chicken hearts or livers?
because how else would they make
dog food, if not from picky KFC diners?

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3 Comments

    • i’m rarely there… an hour or two in the horde and you realise what the atomised man wishes, or has to return to.

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