The little coffee shop bell, tingles down my spine.
Door hinges disagree with one another,
Squawking like angry crows.
The bored barista thinks about his audition,
When will they be handing me a macchiato, he wonders.
A mustached accent with an idiot attached says nothing. Loudly.
(This poem was written for The Listeners Project where the brief is to respond to a space that is about be demolished or changed. The Adel Rootstein Mannequin Factory at dusk was the creepy setting for my piece. It had been opened 57 years previous.
Here is the link to video: https://vimeo.com/197206852)
The rusty hands of time stop,
As he enters the room.
Quin the man – the malaprop
The ice winks in the glass
Warm thoughts freckle my shoulders
My mind melts into my veins
Eyes shutter close
As nostalgia has a lock-in
Painted smiles chuckle around the bar
Filled with familiar faces of people I have never met
Bottles, who spirit is judged on emptiness
Line up, in front of an oily mirror
One is charged and taken for further investigation
In it’s place, a reflection of you
Glimmering under a paper moon Continue reading
Your urbane strides
Topped with a knowing countenance
Covered in butterscotch skin
Browned by your light.
Is it their emotion that scares you?
All those red shoes dancing the blues
What!? Not connoisseurs?
Shafts of dusty dawn light poke you in the eye
An image, a flash but no recollection why
Your hair hugs your brain too tightly,
But from the prison of sleep you are just a parolee.
He plays it as a blessing but knows it as a curse,
The Charlatan knows his lines but he does not own the verse.
Borrowed flesh illuminates the projection,
A carcass, the scale of the reflection.
Sartorial ancestors of the preppy,
Could hear the twenties roar along that shore.
Moments of joy, who knows if happy?
Where battles rage in that time post-war.
(NB. This was written for my friends and is about the first weekend I spent in Barcelona away from them. Anything capitalised is a name or a nickname of a friend.)
Here goes this ode, I hope more than reviewing,
First Friday in Barca and this Teapot is brewing,
And although I am missing my favorite Mug
This electric city is the socket for my plug.
A black and white bar receipt,
From a moment in the grey.
Reminder of the beat
Of when you were carrying on your way.
The trees scratch their own itches,
Unaware of the wind when he smiles,
Only when he sighs.
The clouds, they raise their eyebrows,
In front of the sun’s smirking countenance.
Spring previews full of warming praise
An expectant public in colourful days
Talk of the town and what was to follow
Was all about the circus of our friend Apollo.
Equal and opposing forces
Does not mean that nothing moves
If what’s caught between strength of horses,
Can’t take the stomping hoofs,
If it can’t take the stomping hoofs.
Thoughts know the roads around their home,
Often forgetting their offspring have flown,
To fledgling nests in infant trees
Blown back, shown back, homing on the breeze.
When drowning in a mull,
Frothing wash of cranial pressure,
Ideas lap against my skull,
Piggy backing their predecessors.
Striding into a swirl,
Lights socialise with one another,
The rooms arbitrary pearls,
With yesterday to smother.
There is a hole in my stomach,
That I just cant fill,
The flat soul it doth ache,
Is it better going up or downhill?
He pierced her world without knowledge,
Her eyes dropped into her heart.
Soul fire ignited but he brought no pledge,
Her passion, she knew, she cannot impart.
When one wants to flee,
Yet the feeling is happy
Two realities can occur,
Do you imply? Do I infer?
They were looking for something to do,
But opted for something to say,
Gossip was a communal patchwork quilt,
Handed round with glee and added to.
Temporary designers embellished.
They had no art direction.
it mattered not how it looked,
But whether you’d heard of it.
The stitches of separation
Weaved exaggeration with nonchalance
In-spite, in-spite, in spite.