The Megaphones

No justice was always the thing after

which other things followed to clarify the argument

crackled down to the numbers

but after the numbers were counted infinity stretched

so open its wings electrically

clouds congregated around a suspended altar –

I do not know what we witnessed that day

though we stood often in stairwells

leaning on doors beer between feet

arms linked voices linked for a moment

the men in their gold frames were truly frozen.

Hands jolt palm-T or otherwise security guards nodding heavily.

Fire. Exits. Palm-T opened up through a shake of the wrists

I agree or otherwise we are securing the doors with our bodies.

 

Did you realise there was always time before money existed

the world spinning in dark orbit the stars choking a strange

necklace about the wrong neck?

In central London

a loop around the Egyptian embassy

in the Middle East

flames screech oranges

boxed on pavements or a car

moving through the city rocked to its senses

or otherwise a glassy smash

resting on the hashtag

becomes a virus or otherwise I fell drunk on chicha

my tongue for a moment I was with you

before we turned down another street #stopandsearch.

 

Nor peace nor never was peace

rising up the police

did it you see –

if the court quashes it what

does that mean?

there is a long stream and if you follow each tributary?

 

A tribute might be paid but everyone says: no one can stop a river –

the army try as the banks blur boats like dollar bills

no one had expected that glassy notion.

 

Fuck the lovely sky with its gentility it spins like Earl Grey

or otherwise these houses were there from the start-whispers

rough tulle streets paves of brioche

and anyway cosmetics always sell well or an aria.

Rise birds through the colours of your voices.

Let your heart riot as it will.

Watch from the nearest rooftop. Sing

through these megaphones. Or place to a wall and listen

to the voices in the next room strung with clattered light as light did you see

the streets are full of footsteps

glass walls long since smashed. Jewel-backed

or otherwise be that only shaking tree

the death of the dawn falling now heavily cloaked –

the city chocked on capital.

Photo by bixentro Attribution

Liz Adams

Liz Adams has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia, and an MRes in Humanities and Cultural Studies from the London Consortium. Her work has appeared recently in Static, #NewWriting, Stand, Untitled Books, morphrog 6, and the anthology Ghosts of Gone Birds (Bloomsbury). Her first book of poems, Green Dobermans, was published in 2011 by Lazy Gramophone Press. She has worked in collaboration with musicians through the Voiceworks project, and with dancers at The Place, London. She lives in Devon where she teaches creative writing freelance.

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