Atlantic Road meets Coldharbour Lane, I wait to turn the corner here, hiding in the shade of the railway bridge. Looking out at the blue sky backed buildings, that stand, and I imagine are really flat, like a scenery backdrop.
Coldharbour Lane on a baking hot day. I grew up just off of Coldharbour Lane. Which is a lie, but also the truth, I fled here. It was them or me, life or death. It saved me, here I first tasted life, and learned to be. I learned to breathe on Coldharbour Lane. The light changes. I cross the street and turn the corner.
Men will caress
an old whiskey with
the kind of tenderness
they never have for older women.
The Word
The world is made of words
future, past, and here and now.
Language is the glue that holds the mess together.
Love and Hate are made of words,
—you can’t have one without the other.
Thats not to say that hate is right,
the past has tried in many ways
to warn us that it isn’t.
But men will build their lives on it
and argue round and round,
“you’re too obtuse to see the truth…”‘
“That Hate is Love and Love is Hate…”
They would rather burn the world,
than admit that they were wrong
and guard their hate with guns and words
as if it was their Mum.