The only tide I know
the only tidal pattern I can talk about for sure
is the tidal pattern of traffic in the rush hour
the familiar surge backwards and forwards
never quite exactly the same or at exactly the same time
foam spitting out its bubbles
the little eyes of cars in the dark could be fish
bobbing along for air
the pent up pressure unbuttoned
in a far off car crash the dark matter everybody thinks they can see
or the pent up pressure, a ladies blouse unbuttoned at the neck
in the steamy bus
for air
the tidal force of the moon is drawing you to town for work and then back home
for tea
or the arms of a lover
wispy oven smell rinsed out by the kitchen fan
it’ll never be quite what you expect
ten hot dogs matched with a packet of eight rolls
it’ll never be quite right
you know
opening the bank statement standing at the top of the beach above high water
where the stones are sharp underneath your feet
which makes you totter precariously from one foot to the other
in normal times
and the credit crunch is a huge ship wreck bladdered across the beach
bursting through your stomach and heart and home
all the fine goods from the bowels of the ship
are carried off by the usual suspects to be re-sold again to each other
the golden boy beachcombers in Armani suits,
or whatever the label is this week
to loop back round on a sickening journey
The circle will square in sidereal time
when stars blink the truth across the new winter sky
As my feet become godlike and massive
taking root in the earth
