saw her in the street

polite, random, neat.

forget drunkenness

create the diabolical

divine Tabula Rasa – blank slate

too late.

 

one, kind, sweet woman,

polished floors with rage

arms red and fleshy –  

 dark memory of her soul 

 

 late, near the Spaniard’s Inn, 

 full moon shining,

with all the solemnity of a river in flood,

sleeping London dreaming of blood.

 

around the houses, cats skid under cars,

child-mother on the watch for rapists,

she accompanies her child slowly into sleep.

 

suddenly, breaking through the gizzard of sleep,

pale light, like the light of heaven,

awoke her from a world that does not vibrate

with tube trains,

 

the kettle was a fanfare of sterility

in the sparkling morning, the baby fed,

makes a plaintive cry and weirdly

creates a skinny child, filthy and dark,

In a kitchen with no hot water or heat

the family disappear her

Into a secret cellar. Sold and neat she is

 

an unregistered angel, she screams incessantly,

nobody hears her and nobody cares

people’s eyes averted

What can she expect? Uncosted love?

 

How hard it is to be beautiful if you’re poor

it’s a job to stay alive. Never mind thrive.

crazy ponds under the moon made her swoon

with a great hunger for your life.

 

these building are shards of glass,

uncracked and moneyed,

Only oblivion can return them to

Eternity!

 

As she grew older, she remembered

The reflection of the temptress moon in the pond in winter,

Silence and lassitude accompany her into

This whispered secret

 confessional of her heart

where shadows are not pale

and where there is no blank slate.

 

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