Monday, 22 September 2014


(original poem & song)

She had just finished her coffee

she had just finished super-gluing 

the iron-on patches to 

her black jeans


when the BBC 

reported her city 

the night before

The scandalous 

yet predictable situations

played out on the streets when

certain dice were cast 

Rolled and bounced into

a combination of numbers

when added 

together spelled trouble

She could coherently 

put herself together for you 

on a gray cloud 

with a silver-stained lining 

Halloween behind the ears 

like a cool whip of 

winter winds on 

the nape of your neck

When someone in any given room

in any given west-side victorian 

half-rehabbed three story apartment 

had mind to meet 

The fullness of her face

the fullness of her hot stare

the depth of her purpose 

you can believe 

Just like you buy 

the street talk on the east side

in a slurpee swishersweet rhetoric

ghetto to the bone

Descended from

the self-made madness

of your home