Hurrah for the Danes
It didn’t take long, after quitting the metropolis, for
the bandwagon flags to appear, slung
greyly above the motorways and shining like platinum
in country-windows; else wrong way up but numerous
or suspiciously uniform, down the main road leading into
my hometown. I haven’t seen such precision since the forties.
There are perhaps well-meaning innocents here,
caught up in convenient timing; and there are
colour-blind Vikings armed with chalk, who have forgotten
the sight of their balaclavas. Not enough white is the problem –
is the pitch at which these ship-sails buffer
and snap, for all you would call yourselves “patriots”.
KST
It costs so much to watch the sun
on days like this, to trace its long-legged slope
across kind-keeping rooves, or follow an
errant seagull charting a washed-blue hope
troubling peace with excessive beauty for just one –
x
There are more crackles than words; more
missing than there, and the dialling notes cut
snow-patterns in meaning. Texted love wanes insincere
when one is nine and noon is eight, and
when soft wee hour aches meet brusque day-out ardour –
x
When a wet dawn pours through emptying trees
and I fear I’m less loveable than the sunshine
still gracing each shot from Sokcho, I pray this
trade-off won’t clang too harshly; let in
weary morning, and try not to match you to people’s faces.
Shoreditch, late April
Just look at this room, with its rented furniture,
prison-striped by the late great afternoon sun.
A whole day on the fourth storey;
my feet haven’t won’t touch the ground.
Cast an eye over this accumulation
of employment progression and finance history
books, and the standing desk, stilled –
your brother’s been away for weeks –
and not once have I risen early to write.
I have taken my work laptop to bed
and staggered through reports,
tasting stale retainer,
and smelling a little of semen.
There is no poetry in this place,
or I am not brave enough to excavate it.