At Waltham Abbey, after Pasolini's *Canterbury Tales*

Waltham Abbey/ cloud mound/
Sun Street, market peels

I was imagining some utopian school
away in the mud-mist/

was it in Kingston Hospital
under ether for the appendix

where I dreamt of the girl in the tenements?
It was the future, a tall adobe-like estate,

sloped on the edge of a northern city,
under her kitchen windows,

the dream a whole summer.
We left the city-edge into wilderness

via buried motorways and transit pipes.
Air vents like the carpark/ at Holy Cross Waltham.

Rimini

In Peter Pan club/ the port club/
the Adriatic like a paddling pool
stars had fallen in,

-Could I pass for French? I asked,
-The French are more milky, she said and do sexy eyes,

I told her, under the music, that I was writing a ...
sequential cubist triptych
about disco,

*
The road-sides crushed space and air onward
triangular
and panned out and crushed in, forward,

I pushed my knee to the crossbar
showing change in speed with my body
sometimes I felt myself rush away from myself
with my body left behind and empty, and I was a too-light nothingness rushing downwards,

I sometimes felt metal drawn in with my breath

I would never want to push my nose against concrete,
or roughen soft internals,

rather than cascading metals
the rear gears were now iron boulders
big falls with 'thunk'

I needed no drink
and made sparse stops
like three meals a day

but I would have to stop surely
for some oil.