She wore black and she was beautiful – beautiful like a day full of sunshine but where a cloud was raining in my ever so fragile head.
I was happy to have passed her because my reality is a sandwich in plastic wrapping and staring in shop windows. Mirrors and reflections haunt me – they are everywhere.
I walk the West End for hours searching for my soul and that one line but I return home with only dirty finger nails from the tube train.
I pass the flower seller who cries for the flowers never sold.
Rosebud and redundant thorns discarded to the gutter with fag ends and the stud which dropped from the rude boys’ ear.
Revolution stirs and I'm calling time on clit tipping and salad hating. There are more important things to worry about like a nation masturbating over orange looking women.
It’s been years since a fuck. Drip, drip, drip goes the tap – coiled like a spring and fit to burst.
I can’t tell the difference between sunrise and sunset any more. But I do know that daytime TV is the graveyard of the damned.
I look for clues in soiled metaphors.
Love binds people with no road to live on. Sex wets people with no one to love on.
We need a meeting place for the lonely where the first kisses are recalled and mourned like a death in the family.
I hung my dreams out with the washing. Supermarket flowers were never you.
I found traces of lipstick on an old shirt collar – a souvenir of utopia past. Euphoria replaced by apathy.
I now only fear the death of pages – my inability to write.
But then I see her.
She wore black.
A Southbank lovely who carries flowers for future funerals. A fragile butterfly in a tormenting wind.
Mourn the loves which broke you. Get out before slap hits face.
Divine angel – you are my sweetshop, the origins of ice cream, the lollipop of my immorality.
I live in shadows painting her in words. I will capture her bliss on a sepia photograph.
Everyone likes a beautiful woman – very few will love one. Trophies become neglected on dusty pedestals.