Entry 1 Postcard from Kensington Gardens

By Vanessa Vie

Abdominal strength & Kerouackian
Initial extra–tipsy state — it’s a good Night out in i send a text to
my mother:
— you are not doing the right thing
— what do you mean — ?
— at a human level, and responsibility

I drink, and drink: half a bottle
Three quarters —Wine:
I need it — wisdom. Never
Again
Look at me with my granny
–cord
Ecstatic after Highway 61, and now
Parker sits me at the keyboard — gosh
I understand drunkenness and sax speed
Empty, more — after grief; death staring straight
To my face. Walk away from keyboard
Rich. O I cry your death queen mother
Who is to cry mine — ? I don’t speak contemporary
Slangs. With a sip I go back to Jazz.
Unrequited it was — but I do it for love

For the love of Art, and you. Spirals, and gargoyles
in the flat lived in, and we got in heat
sucking my Milky Way: — It was my offer
nevertheless, an entwining of “it meant to be.”
On my knees for love, like I poet I think
Of parallel realities; until the vinyl scratches.
Nothingness. Double Hammer, Splits
Dogs, Slcaford
Mods, Amyl &
The Sniffers, Skepta,
P Money, T Verb
I like it. These arc times
for Punk, Grime, Drum
& Bass arrest. Hip–hop
We’re sad
at war.

Feeling guilty for the drunk
Amount, I walk into the empty
Streets at night; fetch an abandoned
Frame with possibility in the mould.

Sleep. Wake up before dawn. Walk
Again into dark park, to the rim of lake.
Water splashing gently, and harsh —
only sound and my breath. And inly
Gently, and harsh, my thoughts.
Philanthropist, or naive, who knows
So
Sad, inebriated. Walking to the rim
of sky, of water, hung low
Under resplendent full circle
Moon, and still sleeping
The ducks, and Swans
Only one swan up
— Song.

(draft 28 December 2023)