LONDON -> CAROLINA -> NYC -> LONDON
Flaunted birds flight spays the feather clouds, whizzing and humming over the silent wings of the church on the North parkside. Elevated semblant rye talk comes all comely in my ear of my flying partner, the Scots widow fraught in conversational joy announces my oeuvre to the constancy masses congregated in rows, rows, rows.
The ache of the muscles around his eyes, the ones full of big ideas and delusions, separate illusions of painting himself white, to attune to the soft baying of the night foxes pining for a day so long wanted and gone. Following the Hemingway, cold champagne orange cheeks crunch to a whisper, no matter how it ends, no matter how it starts the forgotten scent of hard hearts and the amoire of cards left undealt upon the table.
Boasted and fettered the smile of a handsome child seems the dawn of the Carolina flats, an indication of age and love making, breakfasts of eggs and sausage griddled/shared. New worlds, ideas, experiences, adventures, sights, sounds, waterfalls, teas, smokes, chants of joy bursting from within, a twinkle in the eye that says 'not so serious'.
Concealed in a beret tricky fingers hold host to blustery Winters, pocketed wretches with watches and wily woden wrists unload the news to the laden busboy, the libertine of Paris gone over to the Americas.
Corsaged the cold underside of the pillow where your face lays is gripped with steely fingers, along with the prime with the pipes made of red clay, earth and stone fixated to the lips, of the pipeman, his name unknown save for the russet curtains and drapes baring the velvetine insignia of secrets long passed from quartermaster to quartermaster, his tunes on those pipes eclipsed and swam through fortuitous swells of pears and apples grown in dewy groves in the backyard of Lancashire soil. Dark black peaty soul soil enriched by those who would walk with an open heart and truffle their heart ache from such car crashes, like the bones of a fish from a long dried ocean.
Afloat in the bay above the salted plains of cloud the silver eagle's engine furor pressures the intimates of my ears, a drift of motion and the mystifying physics, arising metallic phoenix of lasted dreams, precipitations of consciousness delving towards the ire of a Solomon-esque queen. Deriving sea shanties from the blood strewn marble and sandstone steps, grandeur halted meek in the barrow of untimely flight, air tides and fallow honour. Leavened with pride, swollen in ecstasy and lament, fore-warned of the purpling death calls silently mewed by the cats of occupation.
The tower sighs in the distance as I...
Bridle ways sing with the trembling symphonies under the crush of my foot as you...
Coffee, again. A warming sun in amongst the pines and swings, a fresh layer of ice over the Onassis breaks under the duck feet. Another sweet Manhattan in a martini glass, the mix of whiskey helps me to Bishop Loughton in Brooklyn Heights, damn missed the market, high rich hand made trinkets, empty 'cept for boxes of dumplings and the waft of fresh discarded noodles for me to graze my senses on.
After, on the platform of Clinton Washington Avenue I sit on the shredded wooden bench waiting for the G train, small grains of wheat amongst the brownstone Kings of yesteryear, calmer, sweeter, older, slower.
I hike from Broadway/103rd on foot rubber through to Bleeker, Times Sq,through the village, Soho and Bowery. I finally sit and stare, motionless for a thousand yards, the girl in front sat in profile, the one with the flowing black hair and soft warm face like a light in the mire of the subway, a subway swimming in sweet nuzzles of cheap perfume. On board a preacher in pink and black arrives, "I do not smoke, I do not drink, I do not do any kind of drugs and I have $2 to see me through..." and then my thoughts turn away to the blonde, as seemingly they do on such a constant baring of late.
And then it begins again, 2 over easy in some New Yawk tawk diner, potatoes, toast, coifee. The dull aching pull of desire, of sex presence and holding and taste, a lowly important impulse pervades. And then I forget it all as I pick up new NYC style kicks, crying wolf, the East VILlage looms with bodega, sauteed steak sandwiches, strolling with the olds and the calves are tight from the miles put in from all the previous messages.
My mid-afternoon sweet Manhattan, 3 parts Jack, 2 parts Vermouth and 1 part triple sec, Martini glass, naturally. The gogo waitress spills herself a tipple and the new kicks impress, almost, the souk kitchen blues echo down from Harlem and up the boardwalk, slipping comfortably downstream into dusky checkered hexagon and stool bars, all indigo and gold, crystal and tags oppulate over the amber froth of bourbons and ebonies divine. Baby no cherry for me, maybe a thin black straw to stir, maybe.
It;s these choice cuts of beef that set me for sixes, yeah I rolled it on the dice with limes, soda and gin juices in the joints of Soho. Like the Broadway phantom juiced on flash photography the gogo waitress takes on a gaggle of out-of-towner Americans, overweight but not too bad, kind of like a Wiganer or Scot, not the louche Londoners or svelte euros I have become accustomed to, spoiled with the eyes, making eyes, eyes, making. Ouch, Latina and blonde, not the blonde, just hoary hoops of cold dimple brown skin, soft forearms, clean looking, gogo breasts and shakes a food one, knows the Manhattan, not any of this cheap trick cocktail bar tender crap.
Stalked by the green beret/fishing hat pimp hocking in a bin on the piss-stenched Bowery, huggy fitchy, string around the waist, all leggy chinos and taffeta cream bomber jacket. And happy hours begins, I partake again in my drink obsession of sweet warming whiskey, the go-a-go-a-shakes-a-ha, my Man-a-hattan cometh, ahhh.
The monkey nut spit-sawdust floorplan settles and me with the two-bit jumped up ego drink down t o them, rocking with the dwarf man Dylan, his plectrum in my pocket. This black bleary self walls and balls and becomes not so nice, not as I used to be anyhow. An amnesty or something.
From the trail down to Brooklyn I troop to Coney Island, rugged rough hands holding the cradle of the faded seaside. 'Butchy' the Doberman growls from behind the chicken-wire fence a-top the childrens' merry go round, glass and vial smoothed by the tidal sands of the cool Atlantic. The young guns and I meander the boardwalk awaiting the ground rumbler through Avenue X to Q for the interchange of the F train. Coney Island baby, but not before the Dumbo unlocked it's secrets of French polishers, bars and motif cafes hidden underneath the Manhattan Overpass. Feint beats of the heart and stepping through the curtain in to a wall of crowd noise and hysteria, a lowly lit cinema hall within the warehouses, the last day of the birds' wait as the geese migrate.
Inclement New York, the driving rain up the Avenues sticks my jeans to my thighs, hoody up and down drawn over my dry face. You see here at Grand Central Terminus, the Grandaddy of NYC sits with aplomb on his sodden chair, ornate curling zodiacs and buttresses of packed fleshy mortals slewing through his bowels of marble, their flushed wet imprints on his floor. Here I inhabit the underbelly awaiting my coach to snake all the way to JFK.
Home.
Flaunted birds flight spays the feather clouds, whizzing and humming over the silent wings of the church on the North parkside. Elevated semblant rye talk comes all comely in my ear of my flying partner, the Scots widow fraught in conversational joy announces my oeuvre to the constancy masses congregated in rows, rows, rows.
The ache of the muscles around his eyes, the ones full of big ideas and delusions, separate illusions of painting himself white, to attune to the soft baying of the night foxes pining for a day so long wanted and gone. Following the Hemingway, cold champagne orange cheeks crunch to a whisper, no matter how it ends, no matter how it starts the forgotten scent of hard hearts and the amoire of cards left undealt upon the table.
Boasted and fettered the smile of a handsome child seems the dawn of the Carolina flats, an indication of age and love making, breakfasts of eggs and sausage griddled/shared. New worlds, ideas, experiences, adventures, sights, sounds, waterfalls, teas, smokes, chants of joy bursting from within, a twinkle in the eye that says 'not so serious'.
Concealed in a beret tricky fingers hold host to blustery Winters, pocketed wretches with watches and wily woden wrists unload the news to the laden busboy, the libertine of Paris gone over to the Americas.
Corsaged the cold underside of the pillow where your face lays is gripped with steely fingers, along with the prime with the pipes made of red clay, earth and stone fixated to the lips, of the pipeman, his name unknown save for the russet curtains and drapes baring the velvetine insignia of secrets long passed from quartermaster to quartermaster, his tunes on those pipes eclipsed and swam through fortuitous swells of pears and apples grown in dewy groves in the backyard of Lancashire soil. Dark black peaty soul soil enriched by those who would walk with an open heart and truffle their heart ache from such car crashes, like the bones of a fish from a long dried ocean.
Afloat in the bay above the salted plains of cloud the silver eagle's engine furor pressures the intimates of my ears, a drift of motion and the mystifying physics, arising metallic phoenix of lasted dreams, precipitations of consciousness delving towards the ire of a Solomon-esque queen. Deriving sea shanties from the blood strewn marble and sandstone steps, grandeur halted meek in the barrow of untimely flight, air tides and fallow honour. Leavened with pride, swollen in ecstasy and lament, fore-warned of the purpling death calls silently mewed by the cats of occupation.
The tower sighs in the distance as I...
Bridle ways sing with the trembling symphonies under the crush of my foot as you...
Coffee, again. A warming sun in amongst the pines and swings, a fresh layer of ice over the Onassis breaks under the duck feet. Another sweet Manhattan in a martini glass, the mix of whiskey helps me to Bishop Loughton in Brooklyn Heights, damn missed the market, high rich hand made trinkets, empty 'cept for boxes of dumplings and the waft of fresh discarded noodles for me to graze my senses on.
After, on the platform of Clinton Washington Avenue I sit on the shredded wooden bench waiting for the G train, small grains of wheat amongst the brownstone Kings of yesteryear, calmer, sweeter, older, slower.
I hike from Broadway/103rd on foot rubber through to Bleeker, Times Sq,through the village, Soho and Bowery. I finally sit and stare, motionless for a thousand yards, the girl in front sat in profile, the one with the flowing black hair and soft warm face like a light in the mire of the subway, a subway swimming in sweet nuzzles of cheap perfume. On board a preacher in pink and black arrives, "I do not smoke, I do not drink, I do not do any kind of drugs and I have $2 to see me through..." and then my thoughts turn away to the blonde, as seemingly they do on such a constant baring of late.
And then it begins again, 2 over easy in some New Yawk tawk diner, potatoes, toast, coifee. The dull aching pull of desire, of sex presence and holding and taste, a lowly important impulse pervades. And then I forget it all as I pick up new NYC style kicks, crying wolf, the East VILlage looms with bodega, sauteed steak sandwiches, strolling with the olds and the calves are tight from the miles put in from all the previous messages.
My mid-afternoon sweet Manhattan, 3 parts Jack, 2 parts Vermouth and 1 part triple sec, Martini glass, naturally. The gogo waitress spills herself a tipple and the new kicks impress, almost, the souk kitchen blues echo down from Harlem and up the boardwalk, slipping comfortably downstream into dusky checkered hexagon and stool bars, all indigo and gold, crystal and tags oppulate over the amber froth of bourbons and ebonies divine. Baby no cherry for me, maybe a thin black straw to stir, maybe.
It;s these choice cuts of beef that set me for sixes, yeah I rolled it on the dice with limes, soda and gin juices in the joints of Soho. Like the Broadway phantom juiced on flash photography the gogo waitress takes on a gaggle of out-of-towner Americans, overweight but not too bad, kind of like a Wiganer or Scot, not the louche Londoners or svelte euros I have become accustomed to, spoiled with the eyes, making eyes, eyes, making. Ouch, Latina and blonde, not the blonde, just hoary hoops of cold dimple brown skin, soft forearms, clean looking, gogo breasts and shakes a food one, knows the Manhattan, not any of this cheap trick cocktail bar tender crap.
Stalked by the green beret/fishing hat pimp hocking in a bin on the piss-stenched Bowery, huggy fitchy, string around the waist, all leggy chinos and taffeta cream bomber jacket. And happy hours begins, I partake again in my drink obsession of sweet warming whiskey, the go-a-go-a-shakes-a-ha, my Man-a-hattan cometh, ahhh.
The monkey nut spit-sawdust floorplan settles and me with the two-bit jumped up ego drink down t o them, rocking with the dwarf man Dylan, his plectrum in my pocket. This black bleary self walls and balls and becomes not so nice, not as I used to be anyhow. An amnesty or something.
From the trail down to Brooklyn I troop to Coney Island, rugged rough hands holding the cradle of the faded seaside. 'Butchy' the Doberman growls from behind the chicken-wire fence a-top the childrens' merry go round, glass and vial smoothed by the tidal sands of the cool Atlantic. The young guns and I meander the boardwalk awaiting the ground rumbler through Avenue X to Q for the interchange of the F train. Coney Island baby, but not before the Dumbo unlocked it's secrets of French polishers, bars and motif cafes hidden underneath the Manhattan Overpass. Feint beats of the heart and stepping through the curtain in to a wall of crowd noise and hysteria, a lowly lit cinema hall within the warehouses, the last day of the birds' wait as the geese migrate.
Inclement New York, the driving rain up the Avenues sticks my jeans to my thighs, hoody up and down drawn over my dry face. You see here at Grand Central Terminus, the Grandaddy of NYC sits with aplomb on his sodden chair, ornate curling zodiacs and buttresses of packed fleshy mortals slewing through his bowels of marble, their flushed wet imprints on his floor. Here I inhabit the underbelly awaiting my coach to snake all the way to JFK.
Home.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
I've often dreamed of London. There's just so much to cover here, first, ya know.
Is London as mad as New York?