By | 1 July 2009

someone's shout become
an accent on elocution lip-reading
at the bar – 'is repetition still itself?'

gazing at the décor a glass too tall
for its short straw if faces trickle in
a peck on the cheek in duplicate

and all slide and the anodized
salvers shine like some pleasant hangover
from last century – way an ultra-violet

lit songlist catalogues nostalgia as a genre
self-portrait in the third person – smile
while the sunken lounge swallows me

then up and go with the flow gyrating down
light to guide us down our only sprung dance-floor
you left i was lost guitar in his minefield

of effect pedals this way to
those rare tickets illicit lure of the cubicle
unspoken like here they know your order: two news

a regular fantasy inched closer to a view to
fissure in a cymbal rim or tympanum the law
packed lips of gum their feel it a figure of speech

and a fait accompli historically the encore
applaud a first shadow each to follow
late and later forgot time and danced on

into the death throes of a last, a final heroic outro.

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