CHAMPAGNE

The most Pathetic poem is small people on fire. (F.K.)

A pleasure steamer sinks on the river.

there is no map of this place its streets look deserted
I have no thoughts in my head
the champagne is undrinkable tiny broken things swim in it
Washing lines items of clothing
the champagne is undrinkable it is boiling A skeleton dances
And we wave from the wheelhouse
as the sky splits in two like always, like always
I am too fucking impatient

A pleasure steamer sinks on the river

The canapes are rotten we’re smirking
there’s a flower in my mouth it is cooling
the champagne has a skin
a thought comes in my head a skeleton
and on the shore tiny broken things wave back
dark golden things by the washing lines
beneath a sky split in two, like always
don’t tell me,

I know what you think.

things that twist as they burn
The skeleton opening its mouth
we suck on its lips till they’re bleeding Young floating people
-
on its lips, till they split like the sky splits,
like always. You say you just have
a feeling Fuck your feeling,
the champagne the music the river Thames in the 80s

was warm and forgiving, we could breathe under its surface

A thin crack ran through the earth
and The colour of blood on a sheet could be blue then
a flower in your mouth always burned then
all these thoughts
the music the champagne the screaming from Battersea Power Station, in the 80s/
(so soft and arousing, O young people
the bottom of the river/so warm
and the music the champagne

the dancing the bodies all moving/the mud in our lungs

white splitting, like petals, in the morning
with our body cameras on, all filming these thoughts In our heads
(A thin crack
and a single vague feeling
(fuck your feeling/ a court telephone screaming
It is the Thames, in the 80s,
a string Broken things are all golden they blew
one another

all moving, all dancing and warm and forgiving

a pleasure steamer sinks on the river. the Thames in silence
not snow but a new kind/
flaming, as we wave from the wheelhouse
a pinch of grey ash in your mouth, where the flower used to be
O flower beds and body cameras, are you filming
It is dancing it is songs it is black sweat on our faces
it is mediocrity and boredom its the papers each morning
it is your healthy new year’s resolution.

Here is a world I accept it.

In the streets the people open their doors, and drown on their doorsteps.
The river looks calm and unbroken. It is the 80s.
In the cocktail lounges, surrounded by rubble for as far as the eye can see
all the air is pumped out and replaced with our filth
and one by one the Officers arrive and start thinking, and like planes falling towards the earth
like millions of tumbling white planes
their thoughts land in the poorer parts of our cities and are the source of a predictable sexual excitement.
All disasters announced years before they happen

Everyone knows it’s necessary to maintain business confidence.

Drink up your drink its going cold Young floating people
dark golden broken things
years will go by and no one will mention/ this
and a silence will grow like the revolting skin on the surface of their champagne
a thick, stinking silence Machine silence they will blanch and find themselves unable to peel away
O Dark golden broken things
our Officers are all dead they are slumped in their horrible armchairs
Their thoughts in your heads are all starving,

they look like skeletons On skinned moons.

A passing reference to epilepsy
and the river looks calm now (like skeletons
Fuck your feeling. Warm and forgiving
and the washing lines, the shadows, so cool then
the music and champagne
A thin crack through the earth
All the Officers are rotting their fingernails still grow in bright waves though
O Young

Floating broken things, who swam

from the boat All singing and burning towards the cocktail lounges / a thought swims
in your head a thin wave overcomes it/
a skeleton surfaces
(thin cracks and doorsteps and lovely old radiation/
a new wave of
Champagne and shadow and
we were happy together
music and
Swim faster
The cocktail lounge is burning
We were happy together, our hands were cut off
The universe has a little fence and a window
our body cameras are turned on
caught it all
And on the train home each night we are troubled by the same thought
(a skeleton pushes through the carriage A wave rises to swallow it
O swim faster,

We were happy together, our hands were cut off

And on the train home we bang them on the tables,/
sing faster
we were happy together, our hands were cut off/ we Swim faster that way/
We imagined ourselves naked In December/as dead nails grow/
across rivers/and In tents/How beautiful
(how ‘intense’
Name the people you love
Cut their hands off

in the 80s
(they will come away easily
And on the train home together And at the bottom of the river
In Berghaus and Eurohike in bright waves
swim faster sing faster/ Bang your stumps on the table your stumps
in the streets in the houses
all singing all moving and dancing
and warm and forgiving
in bright waves

together. All beaten Together. Fuck your feeling, together. and the music and the warmth of the living