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v. whiplash our lifestyle is a bit like whiplash dancing cavorting in a million cities the world over tango flamenco ceilidh dances breakdancing we do them equally accompanied by cocktails sherry whisky beer we entertain a million parties mingle with a many million strangers wanting us tonight last night next year alone again within our tower blocks eight storey six flat social extras’ prisons waiting in the lifts ascending descending well below the basement level and up and off again apartements et casas tenements now terraces with different patterned streets fluorescent lighting beaming on a million parties dances needing danced vi. breakdancing the dustbin men are spinning round the city like a windmill generating waste the wheelie bins are beergutted obese spilling packagings just like a gift of unrequested feast the dustbin men will spin a marathon today yet the seagulls fatten jostling for position their squawking beaks ajar tongues flared their outspread wings hang sheer upon the open sky like puppets caricatures of poppy politicians pinned upon the blue a false remembrance of tonight tomorrow you it’s true? the dustbin men are spinning round the city generating waste i watch it all disintegrate landfilled CH4 to CO2 and the popping and the piking of the fluorescent yellow seagulls 12
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vii. fluorescent by night we live as ions four dimension lowry figures sculpted bright in stylised black and white our energy is charged is rigged on liquid pill and powder halyards we are the evening’s halo a human painted radius which elasticises out between the suburbs and the centre drawn on dark in light a plane which circles up above prepares for landing watching vulture like a flickering mass of luminescent individuals in its sight one by one we dim we taste the dawn in bovine masticating bites other halyards clung upon and smoked the day appears too bright our pupils blackening our eyes we’re wearing evidence bombardment flight and what is left is left compelled to write viii. vulture our words must not become just carrion we shy the birds away with poetry vulcan like watching over the ship canal from penthouse flats laptops on laps replacing gaps that industry once filled urban renewal fed by city foxes vulpine ticks of thought deepening in a city people cite as born again producing reproducing phallicscrapers on the skyline vulvalmakers of a city park perhaps in words perhaps we’re really vulcans (hypothetically) orbiting our myths of mercury messengers upon a messenger modern muses scripting atheistic odes vulgar vows pre / post modernity vulcanising language 13

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v. whiplash our lifestyle is a bit like whiplash dancing cavorting in a million cities the world over tango flamenco ceilidh dances breakdancing we do them equally accompanied by cocktails sherry whisky beer we entertain a million parties mingle with a many million strangers wanting us tonight last night next year alone again within our tower blocks eight storey six flat social extras’ prisons waiting in the lifts ascending descending well below the basement level and up and off again apartements et casas tenements now terraces with different patterned streets fluorescent lighting beaming on a million parties dances needing danced vi. breakdancing the dustbin men are spinning round the city like a windmill generating waste the wheelie bins are beergutted obese spilling packagings just like a gift of unrequested feast the dustbin men will spin a marathon today yet the seagulls fatten jostling for position their squawking beaks ajar tongues flared their outspread wings hang sheer upon the open sky like puppets caricatures of poppy politicians pinned upon the blue a false remembrance of tonight tomorrow you it’s true?

the dustbin men are spinning round the city generating waste i watch it all disintegrate landfilled CH4 to CO2 and the popping and the piking of the fluorescent yellow seagulls

12

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