Leslie Philibert (6th March 1954 / London, England)
Night Town of Words
Dark shapes lose their forms as the darkness
creeps over the cobbles, torn newspapers lose
their printed heart-blood, thrown before my shiny
pointed going-out shoes.
This is not the time for a manifesto, it is the
age of uncertain quality.
The past races from me and hides in doorways,
running over curved bridges, stretching out its tongue,
as chains of light break and form.
I read my notes, pulled from a pocket of coins and crumbs.
The letters make no sense, they are night shapes.
I is my body, am is longer and weaker, unhappy starts
with a boat, a half face stretching up to the stars
or half lights, p and y slip down into the next line,
the forms all wrong, a scale with just one wrong note.
I am unhappy? Did I write this?
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