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.