Like the ‘Toilet of Venus’
Surrounded by the blood that makes
Her plaster pale skin – her curvature line
Drawing towards. “What did they say”?
- in our silence. (In her head was the…
bad child or the sweet baby).
‘Not knowing is a hole in history –
The broken watches cog’s lay out & springs uncoiled –
(Forlorn) yet written (as life could have been).
For as part of literature: a truth (a true child).
Did the devil trick or did she just
Trip or something equally unlikely.
The life! As vacant as a lot? Or a playground
for devils and angels – whispers’ whispers’ -
It is there among the
White and pearlescent
Twinkled light woven
Through an embroidered
Scene – white softness
Against dogmas – black air
Trickling drums of thunder
Arch through the body -
The soul, the echo – the
Mind is carefree amongst ivy
The rain tips, touches
The tree on its territory
Again and tomorrow
Among the unknown diameters
Watching and listening to them passing
As a passer by…
The Talk in dollars. Pounds comparisons to the priorities
Of the life, those lives within the pond – this pond.
Endless Coffee: the nightlife, flights, clothes, as well as restaurants
My ears engaged! My eyes, mind, away elsewhere.
The room echoed with scent of the apple and strawberry
Opposing. Yet there. Together in this strange relationship
“Behold! Sinners. Behold! Saints”.
“Oh stand up you, the weak and you the weak –drink from this cup”.
The jungles muggy scent with caffeine and croissants.
Youth in a vibrant desire to live to the competition.
To taste the blood in their defeat, their loss, and another and another….
…and the ageing minds now denied their lusting cutting desire –
… are now gone…. Faded like summers lost days
Yet still happy, happy to still seek out another Xanadu.
Points on a compasses joined by a marriage by degrees
And held in order by consequence
The smash of a full cup drew the universe to halt!
…Then as if – learning to walk
Voices began again – refreshed from a stunned silence.
The voices changed,
The mood too,
The conversation whirled away
My story had retained its resonance.
It power somehow strong the tongue and grove
Of the daily talk that oils and floats around the city
And is forgotten as quickly as it is thought of
Looking at the scene of which I was apart.
Tomorrow never comes
And somehow we age and change
Against our canvas
That is our life
Whether the scene is landscape, portrait, or abstract