Afternoon in london

A stream of faces chanting
his chords slam down one after the other–
a strained figure reaches for something right
another twists with a larger death.

All around rows of men push up lack
bullet holes fade into balls of air forced up tubes –
we gnaw away at the present,
poisoned by the past.

He watches this
shakes sweat into song
his 2 lungs almost near puncture
against the beating burden of his heart.

All around in Trafalgar Square
a dead man sculpts stone
while a woman weaves air:
“today’s delayed expectation will not be tomorrow’s denial”

She remember the scars
they found pretty enough
to turn to stone;
the rest fade to noise.

You are nibbling on some shitty bread
and realize
each shrivel of Good
stands on one man –

His hands bleeding through the strings
half tranced eyes glazing over
brow arched downwards
mouth tightening for the last riffs —

he knows
this is the one true
thing he has found

to drown out those stones
and scars
falling into shape.

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