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West End Blues
for Carl
sounds like
someone
knocking a spoon
on a glass,
eighty five years ago,
dreamy piano
rolling like
a foamy wave
sweeping sand
for a few
minutes,
percussion
&
the right chords -
a little scat,
(no flatted fifths),
some clarinet,
a hot trumpet
heralding
a synthetic world
~
click
~
illuminated office blocks
blot out
the stars
wakey wakey,
no room
for romantics
innervated
by screaming light
I use my eyes
more
than my ears
(this is a city)
fluorescence
has the least shadow
&
holds nothing back
for later
~
flick
~
experiencing
forty-five percent happiness
as
coins wear away,
lose substance,
appear grimy,
yet retain their value
&
can always transform
certain people
(that's been proved)
while plastic money
daydreams
my weak metaphor anyway
(I did say
'synthetic')
you can make
your argument
here
though, really,
no need to care
~
sick
~
nothing to blame for it -
all is cell, is human,
an ice block's
melting
on the table cloth
&
there -
a line of appliances,
all white,
definitely not chthonic
~
tick
~
sounds like
someone
knocking a spoon
on a glass,
eighty five years ago,
dreamy piano
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