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The Ability to Earn

The day begins with venom, 
bad longings and fake irony
And I drag my young man's 
corpse down the high street
to wait there with the others...
Past the newsagent with
pungent incense burning
Past the small time brokers
who pay cash for your
petty belongings
And always waiting 
for something
Whether it be the busses
or the clock to strike five
Or for somewhere safe to vomit
Shuffling hot, dank feet
towards our places of work
Waiting for the racists to pass
Waiting for the child beaters to pass
Waiting for god to pass
and the poet to pass
Always waiting for something
The word Love in orbit
around a filthy, black spit
Sizzling there like that...
Dripping with fat
Turning endlessly
in perfect rhythm
with the malignant
flow of city traffic
Wading through this
Crawling through it
with our mouths held open 
by 2 coins and salty mounds 
of cotton wool
The day begins with venom, 
bad longings and fake irony
And me 
propped up against the bus shelter 
waiting for god to pass
Wanting nothing 
more than to slice
that pious little
smile from his face 
and turn it upside-down
in the style of our times

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