Tuesday, 30 April 2013

In her mutinous retreat

Perfected unimpressed
Her skin is white heat
With apple fresh perfume
She's in mutinous retreat.

He doesn't get the chicks
And always looks like shit
But his fingers are like bullets
In arpeggios and licks.

Joy it fell like rain
On the St. Martin's steps
And the camera like a gun
Caught the traffic and the stress.

Now the slabs echo in their glamour
With halogen silhouettes
and the river's like a cinema
As the floodlights pirouette.

Now the wind it carries laughter.
The sting, the spice of tears.
A resonant nostalgia
Of when hours felt like years.

Each rhythm builds up harder
Each pierces and each rusts,
The furious tuneless player
Busking for love's trust. 

And the sick are painted lovely
The lovely lose their bloom,
While the poet's headless poetry
Is the panic of the doomed. 

He plays on despite it
He plays as if at war
She is out there in the onslaught
Cursing as before.  

And he still can't get the chicks
And he still feels incomplete. 
While she is sicker than the sick
In her mutinous retreat. 

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