Smoke rises out of lungs on the tarmaced pavements.
caught in the afternoon light.
Breaths of heat.
And tar thickened heart beats.
Sticky metal and concrete streets.
Something is dripping inside you,
every drop falls and an echo
drums itself inside your cells.
Soft skin, cells, joints, a jungle of limbs.
Your bacterial body, your living skin
and blood soaked bones.
The organs’ walls are thin.
There are more holes in your body
than stars that you will never see.
Museums. And buildings and ancient
sisters who forever climb the footpaths together.
Repeat everything that you do.
no one will hear you.
Even on sweaty afternoons -
the humidity in this coastal city
will trap your voice.
Cluster the packets of noise.
Forming a thin film of
industrially damaged sleet
which burns your tongue and ears and feet.
Stand over the bridge you have know
since you were three.
Watch the waste water run to the sea.
Thumb out the thoughts
until they’re numb
thumb out the thougths until
your restless need to feel is done.
- Newcastle 2010