that lay like beaches
around this island bed,
neon pollen throwing crosses
from windows pane
as Friday nights vocalist
vomited lyrics into hedgerow mike.
Macadam stretched between penguin houses,
black ice with diamond eyes shone
as she stood in spotlights glare
of the last bus,
never knew her name only her stare,
sweeping the damp street for sanctuary
away from needles making love to junkies.
Bump and grind persona pulsed
like an aftershock through the cotton night,
and even the shadows thrust
through an endless swirl of hidden pleasures.
and how I see a world content
to keep revolving, while I am forever in dusk
asking questions, pleading answers
from the nameless faces beneath my tomb.
Copyright © Colin Marschall | Year Posted 2012