MISANTHROPE

london south bank.

friday 9 pm.

i look at the veiws.  st pauls looks like ww2 all the time.

i photo'd it.

saw the camp there.  

protesters

paint placards.

rasta sing about jesus soldier.  i feel an ATMOSPHERE - but only for 4 seconds.

i try to believe they are not hopeless.

i photo'd them under spotlights.

the starbucks toilet is out of order.

i have a dry muffin/huge decaff.

south bank . . . 

couples walk arm in arm in jackets/jumpers on shoulders

towards the tall flames

outside a bar.

i photo'd them.  i can't drink tonight.

desperately i dont hate them/only soft bodies struggling to win something of their own

before the long sleep.

desperately i try not not to hate them/only shadows of memories happening.

i smoke/i photo'd them.

in a big pub/rammed with young people/flying conversations/tourists eat late dinner in the corner.

i try not to hate them/order a coke and take it outside/look down river at the hms belfast.

i smoke/sign says i cant - but i'm outisde!

hms belfast/used to know a girl who had the keys/want to steal it.

blow the bridges all the way to parliament 

and 

there 

i'd make a stand . . . 

i try not to hate anyone/try not to want to blow the bridges of joggers and cabbies and workers and walkers/only soft machines with misery or joy up to the eyes.

its a nice night.  i photo'd it.

and

on

the 

train

home

a knobchucker announces his jeremy kyle bullshit to a trapped magistrate and the carriage.

i shut my eyes/i look outside the window into peoples quiet flats/tvs on.

but

the

train

is so bright i mostly see my own reflection

and

i dont photo it/i desperately try not to hate it

but

think about my beautiful home

and

the kettle i'll put on there.