I'm sitting in stamford hill, wedged between synagogues and kosher wine
sipping from the cup of shared dissent, it is pained on the walls
in portraits of past madness, lines drawn with impulse, driven by intangible memories
repeated blue and orange essence, wired forms and abstract black and white obscenities
and is this obscene?
Stealing space from the void, reclaiming the un-used red and black walls,
tracing the textures of flowers that creep up the
un-used red and white walls
and I dare not move past my vantage point, up the spiral staircase
past the dogs and cats, and laundry and water bowls for the dogs and cats
and art, always art, spinning up and down in a whirlwind of expression
and dogs and cats, and there was only one cat but there were so many
walls
and at the top, Andy Dreads might be clicking away at his computer,
or just laying calm on his high-legged bed
I can only see glimpses of it, projecting my mind step by step
towards open doors and familiar adjustments
drawing my fingers across dark brown wooden banisters
the voices that linger and waft out of the walls and door frames speak in many tongues
worldly accents crinkle and slip through high-ceilinged rooms
and I am among them, in this foreign land, hiding from the reality of rent and stable living
and I, who came out of the rain, soaked and tired, smelling of cigarettes and tension
was let through the threshold and given a bed
