Sunday 13 May 2012

Proletariat (fragment)

chains drenched in sea spray. A raising arm in a
grey vortex of murmuring & a spinal optimism.   Determined intestinal  despair.  City sky
rising cloud shifts; a dripping drop amongst picket-line head hairs. Refusing,  
forging. Roaring fingers, picking, piercing, gripping, throbbing &
her head is bobbing acquiesence but her shoulders palpitate
with fury and desire.  To be a robber, a conquerer. Living through shards
of glass.  The grass is soft and damp between her fingers, greening her nostrils.  
I blink and sting in the sweating sun. He blinks and stings
under a weak sarcastic force.
A shove in the back. A crack to the head.  

Drifting exhausted & taking normalisation. Being realistic.
Come back another time. Having a  cigarette & a pint;
laughing scattered.  To the revolution. Let's have another round.

The sun is shining outside, with fuzzy dreams of running. An edge of nicotine craving.
Ankles skinned with iron chafing. Clocking off for a piss; live for pleasure, not pain.
All you have to lose is boredom and a throat clogged with boxes, cement,
the stiff voices of pissed-off punters and the inevitability of being cheated.; bypass the gates in the first place.
Sheltering from cracking smoke under a wagon wheel, her chest might break with 
dry dizziness, scarlet salt, a sexual thrill of tearing open the future. 

A pinnacle of murmuring affinity as salt is passed; consideration negating trepidation:
aggravation in terms of fucking nonsense all the same, canting prattle infecting my own mum's speech 
and yours. A grinning crowd jiggers and giggles and frays around the edges with a gun rising up,
her furious love flows with intent around a rifled barrel.  

Our fingers flicker, dawning,  for an alarm