La solitude fourmille déjà dans nos villes,
dont les rues sont hantées par l’Oubli.
Tout déborde de riens qui se rangent en double file
au nez de mecs parfaitement inaccomplis…
A la barbe des glabres, passe l’ombre blanche d’un espoir
raté, criblé des rayons nocturnes, qu’une fée
mauvaise tisse pour nous et brode de désespoir.
Romeo is dead
Juliet gets over it
escapes Paris
goes to Switzerland
opens a bank account
gets a sex change
her name is now Clive
he lives in Brighton
cuts hair and rides his bike on the pier
on Sundays
while stroking his Burmese cat, Mr Kipling,
Clive reads Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet - his favourite
the final scene in the Capulets’ chapel - so real and tragic and…
Wait!
the links pulled us into
a room with no windows,
doubts and beautiful views
I remember some of the
colours, the taste of beauty dripping on lips
a tartan blanket
chanting and laughter, voices
of children perhaps
a glowing cross
the dreamer
chasing logic in his dream
your hand over mine,
two souls - one ocean, no shores
eyes searching the forbidden name
you were there
still holding the phone
when
it rolled from the sky
through darkness,
a ball of light
a thunder
her face too subdued
(don't you think?)
her hands too small
her ears in the right place
unlike her eyebrows, her nose and her mind
her back? a pack of bones
holding hopes at night
and that !dress
in the morning
she should eat more
no, less
no
her chin never moves
never moves
she sometimes does this with that
sometimes she doesn’t
sometimes she doesn’t?
she never ever.
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