Nights
I wrote this as the final piece a thread of poems of which I was challenged to write poetry for fourteen days straight(ish).
This poem also comes from ‘My Sad Self’ by Allen Ginsberg.
In the nights, when my eyes are red
I take myself to Beale Street,
Westeros and the land
of spare oom and wardrobe —
the world through an alternate gaze,
more than guns versus spears
as I look out of my bedroom window
to see the streets of England below –
these lego ant people
like Gramsci’s happy robots
driving sad cars to sadder houses —
at the shops, the wheels
of capitalism’s machine spin —
panoramas of pounds and pence
in a technicolour sunrise
of rents due at the end of the month
the sun rises on socialism,
and Boris’ magic money tree
now blooms at Downing Street
as National Health Service screams scarlet
I hitch a ride, depressed,
with Smurfette in a tearful adolescence
tap tap down the pavements of yesteryear
remembering thrifty charity shops,
rush hour and Welly Road chock-a-block
John Henry, Adams Av and Dappers
hours spent with poets and rappers
my history summed up, by Walter Tull
skin sweating poetry from my pores
no long walks to work is there anymore
should I vacate to the garden
or take in stage-managed Tory propaganda
and absorb this timeless existence,
this Groundhog Day resting on my irises
at nights when my eyes are red
when my faculties cease to resist
