Wednesday, 6 July 2011


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


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

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