I saw her in the street
We were polite, random, neat.
Forgetting what drunkenness
Created in the way of becoming diabolical
Divine Tabula Rasa – blank slate.
Once one, kind, sweet woman,
Polished floors with rage
Arms red and fleshy –
The dark memory of her soul is not pale;
It was late, near the Spaniard’s Inn,
The full moon was shining,
With all the solemnity of a river in flood,
Sleeping London was dreaming of blood.
And among the houses, cats skid under cars,
A child-mother was on the watch for rapists,
She accompanied her child slowly into sleep.
Suddenly, breaking through the gizzard of sleep,
A 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,
Making a plaintive noise and weirdly
She creates a skinny child, filthy and dark,
In a kitchen with no hot water or heat
Whose family would disappear her
Into a secret cellar. Sold and neat.
Unregistered angel, she screamed incessantly,
Nobody heard and nobody cared.
People’s looks were averted
What can you expect? Blank stares?
How hard it is to be beautiful if you’re born poor
It’s a job to stay alive. Never mind thrive
These crazy ponds under the moon made her swoon
With a great hunger for a different life.
These building are shards of glass
Cracked and moneyed
Only oblivion can return them to
As she grew older, she remembered
The reflection of the temptress moon in the pond in winter,
Silence and lassitude accompany her into
This foul whispered secret
In the confessional of her heart
Where shadows are not pale
And where there is no blank slate.