Monday, 5 December 2011

At The Poetry Reading

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was Russian.
Why do you say that?
I don’t know. The black hair, red lips…

The wall behind the altar, someone’s painted it orange.
Yeah… and her white skin.

Nine candles burning.
The poet has long hair
like a rock star. Nasal
voice relayed through
a microphone strapped
to his head so that he
looks like a fighter pilot.

The whitewash on the walls
has got onto our coat sleeves
from where we have leaned
against the walls.

A convoy of cars.
Astons, Bentleys,
Rovers, Mercedes.
I’ve no idea where
we’re heading.

Light like gold burnishing the windows.
White doors wide open
the light shining
on the blue belt of flowers
clustering the lawn.

Salads of fresh herbs and spices.
Everywhere I go, a man follows
topping up the champagne
in my glass. A man sat on the marbled
hearth plucking a golden guitar.
A Welsh tune about horses.

You can hear the hooves in the strings.




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