Hate the town in the tube,
eat roots in Pret,
step grimy feet in Chelsea,
rattle your vegan tambourine,
shut your mandala blinds.
Dealing wisdom for pounds
and you’re angry.
Who ruined you?
Holy anger.
Exhuming the mound,
digging up, muddying profound
holy brown men,
the sweet elusive tap-root
of Eastern trends
(canonised in pamphlet),
chewing soil or gritty grains.
On smoggy days,
you learn to drown,
such strange minutes with
holy anger:
On pavements your breath
animates lights and traffic,
the ego lapses, laps like a tide;
reality congeals,
the buses sigh.
Alleyway moksha,
came and went,
the city is soulless,
who’s right, my friend?
