Zah Rasul

breakfast

I like to think

breakfast cereals

are like the medieval humours

for different moods

there are different cereals

frosties is one mood

bran flakes is another

sometimes I get in

a sugar puffs mood

that’s a side of me

people don’t often see

feeling bored

I went to the supermarket

looking for a new mood

the shelves filled

with cereals

giving the illusion

of being wholesome yet tasty

after much searching

I saw what I

had been looking for

but hadn’t known it

“atkins morning start”

it was perfect for me

maudlin

but

crunchy

bi-lingual

last night I dreamt that

my tongue split in two

and projected out of my mouth

into the universe

one half spoke English

whilst the other spoke Urdu

my tongues were in parallel

but when I tried to say who I was

I knew the tongues would meet

parallel lines only cross once

never to meet again

I held on to this as my cross

thinking I would never be able to move

for fear of losing myself

then I remembered

the Buddhists

and started to

think

vertically

high street

this is the street where I

fell in love,

first with the Saturday girl

at Woolworths,

later,

with the world

the street where I rode my BMX

played with friends

stopped off at the corner shop for sweets,

then for comics,

then magazines,

working my way from bottom to top shelf

where I had my first kiss, my first pint,

my first fight

where I bought flowers every year for

my Mum’s birthday

and then, all too cruelly soon,

for her funeral

the street let me hang around with mates

smoking joints and drinking Dragon Stout

whilst we worked out who we were

more faithful than any lover or friend,

the street took me away from here

the street brought me home

the street is my Statue of Liberty

my melting pot

sees no colour nor division

takes on all newcomers

the street is Kosher, is Halal

the street gives and takes

the street is assured,

has nowhere to go,

nowhere to be

the street is just there

like dirt on the windows

like locks on doors

the street is Zen

a record of my life,

the street grows as I grow,

reminds me how hard the concrete is,

doesn’t let me get too big for my boots

tonight I’ve come to the street to offer my arm

to the needle, get some ink in memory of my Mum

as I walk

the street spreads like a sentence

under the crumpled paper clouds;

changing syntax

fragmenting

trailing off

the meanderings of my life

are cursive at my feet

lead nowhere

I speak in clouds

I listen to the weight of the air

wondering how the street can bear the burden.