poems | restless art

Spring finally comes, like your
warm breath on my
desiccate skin. So then
sing to me of careless summers,
your smile, where
love begins

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t hold out a torch
for me, I am not free of blame. This

is the dance of life where all are
culpable, soon to be drowned in

washes, the mangling gears
of pain. But who knows, these maelstroms

might be wormholes, revealing other
worlds and tableaux of night; dressings

of props across cold stone walls, taken
and rebuilt from dishevelled remains.

And where bards once played on stages,
hidden behind arras stitchings

and nom de plumes, we are all still
mere punters in pits macabre, holding

torches for celebrity – look at them, drunk,
high up with their gods of gold

Like a heavy Thirties’ vibrato, the early
talkie movie strings exquisite
yet tainting,

your restrained pose remains
steadfast before the storm, long shadows
of a vengeance which threatens

you, barely withheld. Still
your smiling eyes stare
back from Paris cafés through

mists of Gitanes, drenched
in sepia, like the relics of some
melancholy sun

restless art