Sunday 26th March

MIAMI #2:

The woman in the elevator has only one wing,
Staggers down the corridor,
Exaggerated slink,
In a little Black thing & heels,
Up all night,
Hair’s a mess,
“Hey!” she says,
“What’s going on?!”,
Catching our reflections in a mirror,

What’s become of her?
I look away,
Put distance between us,
Does she make it?

The waiter is in the wrong place,
Wrong time,
“Nothing” he says with practised disdain,
Crossing to the check-in,
To check out a guest,
Who tipped him at breakfast,

The waiter wont believe I can pay the bill,
For a $17 bowl of oatmeal,
He looks at me like I’m a criminal,
As the car crash woman dances out the door,
To the music of tyres & car horns,
Good game,
Keep walking

(K)

Saturday 25th March

MIAMI #1:

Midnight bikinis,
Motorcades of slow chrome,
Rubber,
Metal,
Paint-jobs,
Body shop perfect,
Engines purring,
Cruising canyons of white facades,
Architecture with it’s eyebrows plucked,
Pale pastel illuminations,
Muscle stripped to the waste,
It’s cap on backwards,
A girl on each arm,
Everybody going somewhere kickdrum,
Faces caught in the light of curb-side menus,
Skin bronzed in the glow of Red tail cruisers,
Rope lights,
Shag-pile,
Gull-wing Hummers,
Stretched Black,
Engorged on shrieks,
On squeals,
On gasps,
Of girls in satin slips,
Wrists ringed in silver,
Delicate chains,
Last names,
Room numbers,

For messages press here,

Hey Mom,
This is me,
Don’t worry

(K)

Wednesday 22nd March

IT’S AN OLD TRICK:

A fat man sits at a corner table,
Watching a room,
Clouds of perfumed men talk strategy,
Locusts in suits,
Smelling of shower gel,
Too much aftershave,
They stroke each other with calculated laughter,
Prelude to dancing,
Circling the buffet,
Stripping it of diced fruit,
Opening lap tops between knives & forks,
Tapping rhythms with tiny claws,
Exposing rows of fresh teeth,
Young guys,
Dressed as old guys,

Somebody drops something,
It smashes,
Somebody laughs,
Somebody looks embarrassed,
Is escorted from the room,
Concealing something wrapped in linen,
A child?

The toast is burned,
Doors are flung wide,
A chill wind enters as the toaster exits,
Pandemonium breaks out,
The salt takes advantage,
Steals a kiss from the pepper,
Tea floats belly-up,
Cocooned in a silk purse,
It’s arse revealed,
A legless duck,
Languishing in a puddle of tepid water,

The fat man sits alone in a ray of sunshine,
Looking dazed,
Tiny eyes,
Tiny mouth,
Tiny fingers,
Unable to recall how he got here

(K)

Tuesday 21st March

IT’S DEAD POSH & IT’S RUBBISH:

Silent couple,
Mumble breakfast,
Linen,
Silver,
Slivers of sunlight,
Thimble bowls of seed & milk of human kindness,
Porridges of fancy things,
Slim selections of pastries in towers,
Three kinds of juices in hand blown glass jugs,
A tray of regimented bacon pointing to magnetic north,
An offering of eggs,
A meadow of mushrooms,
Tiny pats of butter for doll’s houses,
Teas from all over the world,
Brought to tables in presentation boxes,
Served in glass cups with little porcelain roofs,
Filled with hot,
But not boiling,
Water,
Museum of the morning,
Mausoleum to joy

(K)