Poem 90

Composed on my typewriter soon after I got it in 1983 … moving from handwriting instantly changed my style – opening it out, creating more space …
… the poem has been largely disregarded ever since … but it’s got something I think …

( lonely with no memories – stripped to bare essence – imagine just how lonely that would be … )

Out Of The Crowd

When you feel like shit
down the street you go
pushed and shoved
glary sun in an old bowl of wind
until you see
a face
      my god a face
bitten out of the crowd for an instant

start to glide back
try out a whistle
look in a window
you're rolling
somewhere it's all taken care of


tell me
when I go down that long dead street
hunched up against a wind
idle sad
lonely with no memories
only tell me will I see
a face oh god
a face?