By | 2 February 2001

A coal tumbles like a smoking comet
onto the carpet of the lounge
of the Alexandra Hotel. Patrons,
numb to the perfume of coal smoke,
oblivious to embers creeping
across shag, continue eating.
The chitchat is of meteor storms
and bad weather. Flames take hold;
nylon blue, then gold, orange
where the cuffs of trousers, hems
of skirts smoulder and ignite.
Sparks spit from lovers eyes
and as the body fat begins to melt
flames spurt from mouths and waxy
ears as if it were intelligent
repartee. No one stops talking,
as you and I sweat in the flambé
of our dissembling, even when
the cleaner scrapes the dentures
into his blackened pan
2am on a night to remember.

This entry was posted in 06: NEW POETRY and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.