We’re so evolved kids

I crawled cradled into a hole,
a little one next to Mrs. Ples.
There I laid my head down
on our grandmother’s breast.
There it was I cried
the where’s, the what’s, the who’s, the why’s.
Do we hurt each other so
like siblings do, me and you?
You pull each other’s hair, she said
To bash the other on the concrete,
the street, to claim the game’s victory.
But the game’s gone
too far, much much too far.
You’ve forgotten what a cop, what a robber is.
To hide (away) and to seek (refuge)
playing on the streets.
She’d hit us, she said
if she had had the strength.
You hate too much and care too little
So the game my dear
isn’t worth its prize.
It isn’t fun anymore,
it hasn’t been
since even before my time.

Mining inspiration on city streets.

Sucking, ring-mouthed, on exhaust-pipes of inspiration
exhausted I pick-axe my way through soot and darkness
that chokes me up and sits in subconscious corners
cobwebbed clinging on my waking walking
through streets and observations of people
and things to find anything worthy of ink and page.
No rough diamonds or polishing those rough rides
on nights when all it took was a drink and to be taken home
before the morning light could cast judgement on me.
There’s no ore in the veins of jazz and cigarettes,
smokey rooms clinging to skin and sucking you
into their smells and ear-ringing. Wringing your ringless fingers.
Its romanticism Is better left for films
No inspiration to be had sucking on pipes and dreams
and stale cigarette smells
and running from morning light
and forgetting it all
In an afternoon wake-up beside bedside aspirin
and pushed away under the sheets
and washed with your jeans that are worn on the knees
and wear crumpled bar receipts mocking from empty pockets.
Yet here they are, those nights, those receipts,
All laid out, laid again,
In little lines and sighs of charcoal-dark smudges of ink
inspiration on your hands and pages.