This is Georgius. He was George Chapman
the poet, but hundreds and hundreds of years
ago. He was laid in this blacker than black recess
hundreds of years before Centrepoint.
Here, overpopulation ghosts off. We are by ourselves
with the channeller of shadows, channelling shadows
of another who may have known Dee, and of
Here he is surrounded by IESUs
with nothing at all to do
in the holy building he’s in
remembered only by this occluded rock
shadows say was carved by Inigo.
He was a ‘poeta’, so the rock says.
We will water his black roses with our eyes later
but must escape this grot
– the clockwork of night lights,
the hiss of wax –
to where Centrepoint and red buses are the norm.
A 23 will wheel us to Westway
far from the melancholia
spoken to him in radio plays,
our footfalls kicks in the tomb.