Love Poetry Almost but not Exactly

Illusion

III

The day-old sun caught the spinning edges
Of the Diablo, reddening the white masquerades
Of the Marceau-faced jugglers, settling and
Lingering in the fallen haze of the evening.
Dodging crowded faces, screaming and vomiting,
Corner-pissing in silence like a sole grave-visitor
Beneath the canopies and curtains that climbed
Into the twilight, eclipsing what brightness remained;
And the neon bar-lights stirred, wakened, hot-
Buzzing with lures that left burns on the eyes.

II

The raven-haired harlequin half-dancing
Among puddles now gilded by humming streetlamps
In the anaesthetising gloom, ridding
Your strange flesh of what few flaws there were.
Green hair in spotlight, tawny eyes of cold
Silver: Indias of spice enlightened in your blood.

I

Last order of honey-wine quite gently tipping
Its hat in esteem of my wettening shoes.
Coins had become yellow-blossoms, enchanted
By the gold and silver cloth of the pissing-corner.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Romance de la Luna

Lullabye for a Sleepless Night

It's late. Outside, cities sleep,
Or wake up, or do whatever it is
People do to pass the time. It's late,

And the moon passes between clouds
Like the last train out of Vienna
In the final reel of an old movie.

It's late. And yesterday's waste
Waits by the roadside to be recycled
Again. The old dogs howl in dreams

Of endless summers of haystacks
And drowsy-polleny-buggy sun-days
And energy that burns and still lives...

It's late. And the last goodbyes draw close,
Link arms and lock eyes and pose and smile
For the images I will carry with me

Til I forget them. They can wait.
Tomorrow's players are rehearsing
Already, butterflying for

The rising curtains. Outside, the cities
Dream, or pull tight to their lovers' heartbeats,
Or whatever people do to pass the night.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.