Wednesday, 23 December 2009
The foxes are growing more brazen,
Patrolling the frozen London streets
They scatter their chicken bones over the paving slabs
Like shamans preparing to laugh at your future
But then sniff arrogantly at what the fates utter
Before strolling through the night’s crimson sunshine.
I sit motionless on the bench in Battersea
Dear snake Thames crawling beyond my feet
The muddy blood of dear zombie town
I reach and retch and scatter my own.
The pulsing meat of my heart pecks at my ribs
A mottled choir assembled by memory, conducted by blow.
The red canopy of the London sky rains more blood
Filling the river and soaking my pale, pale skin.
Everything in this town is red.
Everything in this town is dead.
Another red fox appears from stage left
A greasy chicken bucket clenched in his teeth.
Its red striped paper spiraling down like drool
A natural extension of his gammy fluff.
And a whiff of dead chicken
Weaves through the coke clogged in my nose.
He stops, looks at me, as if he’s challenging me
A ratty gameshow host and his rattier contestant.
I snort, spit and raise myself from the bench,
Turning my back to the taunts of the fox.
Shuffling along the unkempt pathway
I discern the darkly familiar patter
Of chicken bones
Being scattered over paving slabs.