nude men hurriedly passing
through oxford street
at xmas time
made me wonder and wanting to know:
why are they wearing stilettos?
women running up and down the trees
with blinkered looks on flustered faces
left violently disenchanting traces
of cheap perfumes and other useless gifts
heaped upon the piles of rubbish, scattered
on the pavement.
i looked into the shop windows and recognised,
against such fascinatingly tumultuous backdrop,
myself enlarged on polished chrome, and there they were again:
one had lost a heel, another had, it seemed, by inches missed a courier bike; and there! at last! a van at frightening speed, with flashing blue alarm, turned round the corner and successfully knocked down a set of traffic lights (on red).
the music played so gently and so peacefully and sickeningly sweet the choir sang, and now i knew it won't be long
until the skies will tear apart, a staircase will emerge and on it will descend
a band of cupids playing happy tunes, all dressed up
in gold and silver and in leather suits; but
as i sat down on a bench's edge and was about to raise my eyes to welcome them
i fell asleep and dreamt i'd never wake again.
which was to prove erroneous.
i did wake up, as someone hit me with a club, a friendly officer, and asked me to go home. the street was empty now and i bowed down and picked up from the ground a piece of shiny, coated wood, and put it in my pocket; then i left, pressing my hand against my head where blood was trickling on my my collar, down my neck.
i thought for long that i had died that night, from blood loss on a late night bus
but that now seems unlikely for by chance
the other day when searching for a scribbled note, a number, an address, a message i once wrote, i found, forgotten in my coat, that piece of old stiletto heel; - and i rejoiced.
because it proved that there is always hope.
through oxford street
at xmas time
made me wonder and wanting to know:
why are they wearing stilettos?
women running up and down the trees
with blinkered looks on flustered faces
left violently disenchanting traces
of cheap perfumes and other useless gifts
heaped upon the piles of rubbish, scattered
on the pavement.
i looked into the shop windows and recognised,
against such fascinatingly tumultuous backdrop,
myself enlarged on polished chrome, and there they were again:
one had lost a heel, another had, it seemed, by inches missed a courier bike; and there! at last! a van at frightening speed, with flashing blue alarm, turned round the corner and successfully knocked down a set of traffic lights (on red).
the music played so gently and so peacefully and sickeningly sweet the choir sang, and now i knew it won't be long
until the skies will tear apart, a staircase will emerge and on it will descend
a band of cupids playing happy tunes, all dressed up
in gold and silver and in leather suits; but
as i sat down on a bench's edge and was about to raise my eyes to welcome them
i fell asleep and dreamt i'd never wake again.
which was to prove erroneous.
i did wake up, as someone hit me with a club, a friendly officer, and asked me to go home. the street was empty now and i bowed down and picked up from the ground a piece of shiny, coated wood, and put it in my pocket; then i left, pressing my hand against my head where blood was trickling on my my collar, down my neck.
i thought for long that i had died that night, from blood loss on a late night bus
but that now seems unlikely for by chance
the other day when searching for a scribbled note, a number, an address, a message i once wrote, i found, forgotten in my coat, that piece of old stiletto heel; - and i rejoiced.
because it proved that there is always hope.
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