And dressfolds and rivulets and thighs in cloudworks and broken bed frames and laser-disc cartography and ambrosia and cedarwood perfume and goose flesh vernacular and a mouse we never caught and a small apartment in the south of France

these are the things I wake up to

Every morning without a clue

And I have no idea how you got through

Unlike dreaming

Withdrawal blooms in waking

But don’t you want to feel weightless?

freeze in a shared doorway

Watch as a £20 note flutters to the ground

Whatever swings shut deletes the day

A shape barrels down Frog Walk at 9pm

I make myself small against the alleyway wall

and become an insect reborn

These days dance around polyphonic ghosts

Their laughter forms the fog

Pantomime moans from the billboards and a bird squarks from under the floor pane

And a cat on my roof

My cat is on the roof

It’s not pretty

It shouldn’t be 

Gasping sounds from the shower at 3

The sweating pile of clothes

And the knee high boots

The screamsong espresso maker

My mothers greying roots

But on the other side of the valley the battling never stops

Tied my scarf around the neck of dads guitar

Just to see if it made a sound falling

Back home carbonated bubbles

Chase the zopiclone back

By the train station hallucinated Chris stepping off of platform 3

Or I thought it was Chris

Told him get home safe tonight

In the sound of a rat eating behind a bin you can hear a city

creaking towards extinction

My hunched neck and your shortness of breath

We can make a meal out of it

Our canal full of piss and bones

But the city is alive tonight

When I walk I see between my shoes passages upon passages

Like flipping through a sketchbook

Of clockless bullshit

Metal grates that groan and kiss

And you are porcelain

You are always porcelain

And it’s half-light inside your favourite Mexican place

Smeared mascara on the touch screen menu that I wipe off without a trace

Light wire advertisements coil outwardly all the time always

And the turquoise handrails of the public transport bus

Swings sharply around old hangjaws

Take me home you old weathervane

Just fucking take me home

Press the button and ring me up the cost of all of those

Endless trips to darkening fifth-period classrooms

And reddening smoking areas

And weeping cash machines that stain my fingers heavenward and make the world steam

but back on the bus and through the window

Small universes are glimpsed through apostrophes of rain:

The elderly couple holding hands outside the antiques shop

The teenagers sat on the wall

My gift to you is this endless remembering

This psychotic geography

Run from me as long as you know what you’re running from

Just remember to take your medicine

and i’ll take mine

Just remember to take your medicine

and i’ll take mine

Just remember to take your medicine

and i’ll take mine