'Too Many Poets'

Key to authors' pseudonyms

Deep eyes open so achingly slowly
Lids lick concave lenses
Like a lizard's tongue

Deep eyes speak sound like a busted larynx
Lids sneer Harlow grief
No one could be that young

Breasts heave shadow kissed cleavage swells tighter
Legs cross shaping my thoughts
Like a manic death wish

Breasts heave straining a wet evening gown
Legs fall Bardot spent
A cauldron of silk swish

Fragments of slow swirling dust in the light
My life detailed in specks
Adrift on a frail whim

Fragments of people I used to be
My life Bogart deep
In hallowed halls of sin

I'm going down where the peaches slice
And the dust swirls in a haunting light
To tap out a tattoo of blue dreams
Where deep eyes open slow to the only sight

Nails tap out a tattoo of blue dreams
Hands curl talon sharp cruel
A stone eagles death grip

Nails tap in a staccato rhythm
Hands grasp Lorre grim
No one could be that hip

Hours lost where the peaches are sliced open
Lips part crimson flashes
Below the down pearl moist

Hours lost in places where the hours began
Lips closed Cogan tight
Absent moons become ghosts

Procol Harum concerts in 2001: index page

Manchester: Palers' Convention

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