Mornington Crescent II & III

Triangular shaped heart
center of what?
a pigeon hole for a lucky race
no-one sees just what i face
when i look up at you
red bricks, black bold letters
i know, i know that nothing matters
nothing but you
this moment
no lies, no truths, no long lost youth
you have never seen flowers
but you know the walks, the talks of man
daily chattering
kisses
where encounters start, end
departure
oh no!
let me hide inside you
feed the worm
lingering beneath you
vibrations, speed, tunnels,
darkness and a flood
of unknown faces, legs, voices
and above all that
is you
always, forever
towering above a cross, a bent in the road
paving ways
for the happy, the lonely, the memorable, the lost
parades
of a life time
Camden Town
that´s where they lead
plastic furs, brushed, painted youths
swarming in-out clashing and laughing
in the streets, the clubs, the drumming pubs
can i lie down?
sink into the pavement
the earth, the tunnel
that carries me away
in dirty waters
in endless arrays of filthy utensils
washed off the side walks, the asphalt
by the rain
pouring down
from a thick grey blanket
of massy clouds
i float in silence
white, stained, dead
among
cigarette ends, broken glass, plastic cups,
bags, wrappings, papers, flyers, spit, chewing gum,
somethings, no things,
reminders of the lives passing by
at day, at night
and leaving behind
a river of that which embroiders my grave
keeps me company
when i have ripped off the slave
from my existence
fed it to the pigeons
and loved the grey heart, the red wall,
the infamous hall
of magnetic moments
for one last time
for one last time
at peace
at liberty
a dream, just a dream
but my witness is she
a tube station
and my heart pounds so loudly, lively
heavy but free
from threats of devastation, distortion, abortion
Mornington Crescent
to you I return
your tale is mine to tell
till the end
a lullaby
a melody
soft, light, pleasant

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A man is swearing at the pigeons -and whatever and whoever else-
and feeding them at the same time
the birds don´t care
they want to be fed
and he? what does he want?
does he have a message?
something to uncover the poisonous deeds and lies
that we -as mankind- are fed on, are feeding ourselves on?
are we anymore aware, anymore caring, anymore smart and enlighted than those birds?
are we any better?
they inhabit the no-places, the no-spaces
the leaks
in the matrix
of wealth, fame, haste
where all thinking, dreaming, resting, wrestling
with pains of the heart, the soul, the divine and poetry
is waste
i´d rather be flushed into a leak,
watch the pigeons,
play hide-and-seek with words, selves, and how they divert, unite
than to give in to the machinery
of wannabe genuine realities
of surpressed suffering, greed
and sacrifice of ideals, of longings
of never knowing, never showing
how all of this feels
the sun in my neck
Mornington Crescent
my shelter
my rest
a cradle of pigeons
picking, tip-toeing
fighting for bread
grey, persistent, resisting
more enviable than
wars, monuments, minds
of steel, of lead