Thursday, January 21, 2010
In times that greys and whites
pattern, speckle and tesselate
stretches of tiles and skies
A yellow line smudged with
the earth it carved out
trails the fringes of the songs
you draw in your mind.
As you alight volumes of steel
and adverts of countries
you'd visit as you sleep, fitfully
cashing in on your frequent flier miles
The ragged dolls of pity
strut the beaches in exotic names and swimwear
as the blondes stand neckdeep
in callous dark waters, bobbing
possesions of their dollhouses
and antique chestnut dressers.
Coloured tubes persevere in centimeters
of drunken auras and mint laced breaths
carefully exalting fumes
of half scalded hearts, burnt at the pub altar
exhumed though, outside
mackintosh doors with roses and serpents
in thick and cold
tinted glass and grids
barring escapes, from your Edens.
Stare closely, at those grouted grimy lines
sketched along edges of giant set-squares laid in time.
Don't look at the tip of your nose
you'd get cross-eyed, and perhaps a splitting spine.
They leap, those striations
in sonatas and symphonies
you write with your gait.
Every clicked heel, a beat
tappety tap tap
on trodden concrete.
You alight and slump
in your red and blue seat
As you flew across, so did the crow
The dash you charted
Now, you s l o w
Orchestrated quartets bow and light up
each, a music sheet;
three strings allude the synagogue,
(with spiral staircases and flying buttresses)
burning polaroids in light
expanses and darker hollows.
A harpsichord picks its chord
A Giordani I know.
Wistfully they climb the crest
in C minors
as you melt away..