Damp on the footpath in my furtive skin I slant at passers-by slipping in through Kentish Town. Like me, or natives? I can’t yet tell. London’s utterness making outers of us all — though this morning, mostly, elbows to be missed.
Morning! She’s at the ticket machine, face frayed with smiles, our eyes already gossiping. What were you up to last night? Slow twirls her foot. I root out my purse, sorting coins from fluff. And clink. Ticket. Tell me? Roll of the eye Sommmeone staaayyyed oooverrr. Oh God! I die from my innocence and her thrill lack of it. How much can I ask without without. Tick. Who? No. No? Train’s in, quick! Off and through running down the steps. In the doors before they close. Pant collapse on seats. So now tell me? No names, but alright. Nipping auld nosiness I say Go on. Well he kissed her at the Fiddler’s so she took him home and then and then. Eek. Details of fuck. The trip bed and kicked glass and her, throughout, left rubbing the wine stain with her foot. And worse — the shame — next door banging the wall. Her anticipating laughter. Her thinking I know. I do laugh too and do not say. Just play normal, pouring out cod-shocked He never dids! across the stations until we’re halfway choked. Me hiding in her skitting all my basic don’t knows. Even her So. So? You? Anyone yet? No. Me? No. Sharply I revert to her prior boyfriend woes that this new fella will surely not repeat. Once hedged past my innocence I keep straight on, wringing her for minutiae like He shouts Christ! when he Stop. This one’s ours. Get out at Barbican.
Her first into the salient wind, fists of grasping hair. Me blinking the grit over the bridge and after her. Brick and towers. Lour and paint. Here’s nowhere like any life I’ve learned. Even going under, it goes on up. She saying how it’s ugly and I think not. I think it is Metropolis.
Still and so we’re here for Art. She has the tickets while I have a heart that I hope art will burn. But her shrug au fait keeps my mouth shut and I map my gait on how she walks. Blasé with the sculptures. Stooping to the glass. Paintings mostly lingered at the same amount of time. So this is how I do it too and when the crowd gets hard for art to squeeze out through I chase after. Encourage it myself. Seek to feel but think instead and wonder if that’s wrong — I’m a God’s fair innocent after all when it comes to galleries too. Toe heel to her toe heel down the rows. It’s not til she’s gone round the corner though that art inclines to quicken itself. First particles only — split seams in its side — making gateways into bodies that are not mine. Then gyring off to anarchic sublime. Then congealing to form some other eye I can’t focus into use. Sharpen sharpen sharpen, it hisses I’ll teach you how to look, then always be there to make your cupboards bare and breed you with loneliness. DON’T. Back my back to the picture. Too soon and far to see. It’s only from lying alone in this body too long, I should get someone to lie in it with me. I will. My will. Something will be done. When? Oh for God’s sake one thing at a time. She psssts me back, nudging That one’s just like his dick. I inward groan and outward snicker. Come on come on, let’s get a coffee, I’m dying for a cigarette.
So rosed we flee back to Camden, laughing on the air and pass again into where London roasts. Earthlier than its solemn-eyed Goths, livelier than its New Age Travellers too. Not cataclysmically friends but enough for now and plenty for the World’s End.
Here’s miles from other Saturdays I’ve had. Traipses to Kwik Save and Help the Aged. The market if I’m flush — McDonald’s if I’m bad. Speed line-learning running into smoking fags or dog-earing Solzhenitsyn on my bed. Landlady’s lodger cabbage tea at half past five. Making free with her telly til she’s back at nine. It’s this or upstairs manhandling the time into stretching over itself — only so many times before you get depressed. That’s the ledge too and dangerous. Gloam into staring at the net slide of lights. When the batteries go and my Walkman dies. Waiting, behind the distractible time, a little bit of pain. Just to tipple. Hardly a thing. Almost pretty pink petals cigarette burns on my skin. Bouquets exist, rosiest at the shin, contemplating though up my thigh. It’s a pull rope, for the wade of hours on my own, and matches slice for slice all diversions I know. Tonight I’ll not be at that garden though because Look at me, I’m out with a friend.
Five inch hours after and drink-ate bones, she’s collecting men who woo. Eclipsed by the gilt of her toss-hither mane I smoke myself a pool, drawing only out to dip in their flames. Yes thanks, or It’s lit! College together, she explains with a kind of liquid negligence I’d like to dab on the backs of my knees. Wheel they for her languor. Wheel I for it too and, if I were them, would easily choose her funny ha ha over my funny peculiar no real eye-opener there. Besides, my drunk eye’s once again seeing itself but swooped back from art to more clayish complaints: unflat stomach v vociferous wants. Cheer up love, might never happen, one taunts. And what if it already has? God you! she says, so I do up a smile. Hidden depths, she repairs while I cross my mind to engage more aptly with the room. Success hits on Look. Where? Some lads from our school. Oh? Oh! and — well caulked — she signals them to. Nod they, up glasses and make their way through. Ladies. Gents. Jesus, above my ears though, every thought heads to sex. If I had to choose one which one would it be? Don’t know but some galled-virgin loop in my body’s going Pick so something might get done. Pick and begin to be a person who always gets to pick. Alright then, studious, choose your best. Him. From my audition. Wrong choice. Right away. But recognising why makes it okay, even interesting, to divine for from opposite ends of the table I see she and he at a cautious elide. Oblique referring, offhand offered cigarettes. She intent with his friend but he stares at her neck. Palpable in this smoke-clod air a weft that neither can eschew. So it’s he was last night and her mouth gone tight makes all earlier piss-taking undo. She likes him and he? I don’t know. Sits in my blind spot, along with all men, I suppose. What did he take of her body? What’s he like without clothes? In on their secret but out in the cold, me and my bodiless eye.
Hop out a swear. Fuck my leg’s gone to sleep, and I start up going foot to foot. Have you to piss? No my leg is sore. Well stop it you’re making me want to go. Sorry. Fuck’s sake get off my toe. Fuck’s sake yourself. Hey leave her alone. Never mind anyway, I’m going home. No don’t go yet. No I’m wrecked. Then I will too. No you stay put. Ah look, a few of us were about to walk up so why don’t we all make tracks?
Enslithered by pints I follow her lead. Sweet Ta ra! to the courtiers who do not leave. Then out in the mangling crowds on the street we make our clump move through. Four or six. I take their steer. Completed evening for me but not for her. More modest in her drunkness too with him here. Is that true? I wonder why? Seems with drink even pulling off panels of self, I can’t escape the audience of one I make, so resign to my private view of their fun. Them still playing it friend-like. Still not touching. For why? If I had. If someone. Shut up, you’re just much more drunk and can’t carry it off like they do. At her gate I surrender. Night and kiss. What a nice day, did you enjoy it? Yes. He’s just coming up so I can lend. Of course. Then they’re off upstairs to her fully fledged bower while I and the remaining other turn ourselves to Kentish Town.
Shall I walk you home? No thanks I’m grand. You’ve had a few. So have you. And? And? Don’t get jippy come on let’s walk. First of the autumn. What are you on about? Really the chill, don’t you think? I think you are really drunk. Well aren’t you such a gent to say. I think you are really drunk, m’lady. That’s more like it. True. Stocious so, but friendly, turn we up Anglers Lane. Shop glass by my face making farce of my brain. Some boozed Alice going in through panes while he’s at theatre chat chat chat. Oh! What a lovely not to be, just between ourselves like a birthday party. Crutch-kneed, stick-kneed. This way and yon. My eyes curbing upstream to well beyond the balance of body. Far as stars I see and let the world go sway. Whoa there now, don’t bash your head. Wisha the night and wish this way of floundering could be every day. Is this your road? Yes. Hand on my waist. Gate grate. Handbag. Keys in my door. Somewhere gauging he’s no worse than any other and all my nets go Twitch. Dividing the space. Dividing again. Do you want to come in? Thanks but not this time. I turn my eye back to sky. It stands me in good stead. Some other time maybe? he. No, I say Sure my landlady would kill me anyway I’m just too drunk to be thinking straight thanks for walking me home. No problem. Night. Intacta. He’s off down the street. Were and am intacta yet. No problem. Don’t panic. Intacta to bed. It’ll be fine. It’s not like men can see.