Icarus Rex

Icarus Rex

I nearly
gave up I
never forgot
how to fly
just didn't think
it worth
doing

this maze of streets
suffocates in summer sweat
slides down spines
air choked with scents
of gently burning value burgers
and brittle forced bonhomie
later thoughts will turn
to the watering holes of the "Gaza" Strip
the waterfront apocalypse
of chain pubs and pointless kickings
angry minotaurs stalk the bars
slurping down their stupid suds
somebody else's accident
waiting to happen
this
is the 21^st century
incendiary lifestyles
for emotional cripples
and social chameleons

there will be casualties

and Gibbo moves with all the grace
of a knife fight in a phonebox
stares
at shiny faces
families
in new saloons meandering
along the beaten seafront
knowing it's too big a gap
to cross between them and him
they see
one of those funny chavs
you read about them all the time
tonight Matthew I will be
compartmentalising
dehumanising
who's afraid of the big bad dole boy?
if you laugh at what you're afraid of
it might go away
(shamefully
I do it, too)
Gibbo feels but could never articulate
an imaginary conversation
between these people and himself
I'll stay out of your dreams
if you stay out of mine
but even these car radios blare
In every dream home a heartache
into this anodyne world

where any kind of fame
is more sought after and celebrated
than any sort of kindness
or happiness
commodity over community
possession is 9/10
of the new lore
in the Iron Pyrite dreams
of this proud new millennium
glittering prizes to
own own own
which bleeds into
self self self
here's a new chest freezer
you don't really need it
but join us and you've made it
love the higher power
all on hire purchase
subliminal product placement
and blatant hard sell
hello hello
this is a good buy
time to get that 2^nd motor
for your neighbours as much as anyone
free to do every bit
of what you're told
like a good consumer
we are the champions
no time for losers
this is how the world ends
not with a bang
but a whisper
of a sale

capitalism:
the gentle holocaust
a subtle strangling

there will be casualties

I only drink so much
so I can stop the ticking
for a little while
of what the French call
La Tristesse de la Vie –
the sadness of life
and also because these days
I write best
with a hangover.

This will eventually kill me.
But anything can kill you:

A mother and her 12 year old
autistic son were feared dead
yesterday after they disappeared.
She left a note saying she thought
she'd failed as a mother and
her and Ryan were going to the bridge
so the family wouldn't have to worry
anymore. She hadn't taken
her medication with her.
CCTV footage taken at
3 pm yesterday appears to show
two figures falling from the 150m bridge
eight seconds apart

and what must she have felt
standing in the light
for the last time
before that forever drop
into darkness
she had balls
and a lot of heart
but in the end
it wasn't quite enough
and did she pray
for no life flashing
behind her closed eyes
in the rushing silence
all those years
drowning in the sun

I listen to other people's conversations:

- she's so fat
- yeah but I bet
she sweats when she fucks
- I bet she sweats
when she eats
- I can't believe
it's not Buddha

sometimes the apocalypse
can't come quick enough
sometimes
just an ordinary gull
wheeling overhead
can lift a day
the miracle of flight
of wings and hearts
let the missiles fly
and turn them into
circling birds
then I might
believe

but tonight
this sopping club
is holding
far more gurning
hatchet-faced simpletons
than seems possible
a real retardis
everybody
fired up
pilled up
the music can't be
loud enough
every desperate
flailing dancer
chasing that mad rush
when the bass kicks in
and takes your head
clean off we're
chasing ultimate highs
and maybe
this is love
chasing anything
except
tomorrow morning
then the lights are on
music dies
disappointed silence
and out
into the heart of town
the heart of darkness
tell me who prays
for the soul of a taxi queue?
one couple waits
slumped against
wet brickwork
her eyes are
almost open
staring past the world
in an alcopop reverie
his head in hands
laces undone
and puke on his shirtfront
a private apocalypse
in this public hell
someone in line
sticks the nut on someone's mate
and it all kicks off
stay still
don't catch anyone's eye:
the opposite
of all you've done
this evening
you don't even
breathe out
until the cab is
speeding you
from all that darkness
and into
the welcoming night

nothing in the battered
paracetemol packet but
instructions for use
and throbbing nothing
but holes in my pockets
sometimes hope can fall
right out of your life
as easily as
anything else
this painful pulse
the only way I know
I'm awake
and arguably
alive
I watch the second hand
go round and round and round
and wait for nothing to happen
and nothing does

I listen to other people's conversations:

- Get to the fuckin bar cunt
ah'm spi-ing fevvuhs

the time I felt most alive:
in the open space
of the grey heath in New Cross
with fast friends
watching
the grandmother of all thunderstorms roll in
forks tearing down the sky
chewing through burning ozone
drunk and exhilarated
standing on the bench
arms wide
as the storm came
holding bottle and cigarette
screaming
come on come on come on
urging the world louder
the rain faster
waiting for
a perfect death
and ready to defy
god himself

I've felt shivers of wonder at the alien spires
of the Church of the Sagrada Familia
I've seen a grown man punch a five year old
square in the face for dropping an ice cream
I've drunk tequila sunrises at 5 pm on a pub bench
winking at the businesswomen
I've spoken with the ghost of Primo Levi
and asked him how he made it and he said I didn't
I've chased a sunset for hours on a plane to New
York while trying to forget I was on a plane
I've seen the news every day every day every day

I have loved the stars too well to fear the night

At the wake
my grandma thanked me for coming
and said how smart I looked
in my suit. Smiled
as she said she hoped
I'd come to see her again
like we were arranging something
out of the ordinary.
But on the way out
her face became desperate
as she held on to me
and she said
- I keep sitting in his chair
so I don't have to look at it
and for once in my life
I didn't have anything to say.

I listen to other people's conversations:

- She had a cunt like a kebab
that's been kicked all the way home

I must stop listening to other people's conversations

What to make, then
of this ever-subtle
maddening sensual
fragile frame
which houses the muscle
that can move the world?
That conjures
symphonies and sicknesses
births dancehalls and Dresdens?
The only thing I can do
is make garlands of words
and hang them around the shoulders
of everyone I meet
forever
because in the end
I'd rather go down
burning and laughing
than trundle tamely
into that goodnight
a static prisoner
of the days and years
I'll take
a run at the sun
ripping at the darkness
with a pen and a smile
it's the only way to
fly.