Rose London Love Song for Angel Girl in Purgatory
The sky is premonition grey, and my shoes are wear-and-tear gray, and so are yours, and yours and yours. I must have missed the memo for the pigeon conference.‘ Knuckled Claw Support Group’. I’ d say to you: We domesticated these birds and abandoned them. A murder of aunties in their St John’ s Louis Vuitton strut to the timetable. Over there a child cries and is subsequently tamed with Mini Eggs. A gaggle of delinquents blow left-handed smoke into the air like they’ re six again pretending to be dragons in the cold. Your halo of UNTIL FEB 20 shines in frying-oil yellow, and you’ re stood on the same cigarette butt I stood on earlier. Bus tickets( expired yesteryear) swirl around your leather shoes, Arriva and Stagecoach doing eternal battle, as Michael and the Dragon will. You smile at an unruly labradoodle wriggling out of the arms of some off-duty Tesco cashier( thank you for your service). I see a messenger of God in a young seagull waddling at my feet. February wind slaps my cheeks as punishment for loving an individual in the conglomerate. The bus station windows( plastic, in case of hooligans) are always rattling, restless, raring for the horns of Judgement Day. Angels do pass through chapels after all. Take me way to heaven!, but no, this is where I’ m supposed to be, watching the Glass Tiffanys toddle to the Drinking Quarter with their suitors in tow. And they’ re saying you can never take the place out of the person. Like a splinter? La Luna sits in her place with a groan, round and distant up there, the optic nerve on the eye scan of the city. We people are the stubborn weeds poking through each crack in the pavement here, each grain of gravel in the cobblestone through there, each dip between the waves in the water, over somewhere.
All treading memories into the concrete, us, the animals and the clouds. And it was said: People are to pour into the street to be taken away
somewhere into the next minute into the next year the next years
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