Impossible angel

[just mercedes]

Impossible angel

Beer and cigarettes
and you, your languid locks,
are always in my world of drunken walks
through Barbican and Bishopsgate,
in the moonbeam shallows
of walls spattered with poetry. The change from poetic in the line above to prosaic in this line is too abrupt for me. I keep wanting this line to truncate to 'of poetry-spattered walls'.

Thursday nights your longing is a sea
crossing through hours of drunkenness.
Mindful glances in the mermaid shadows
turn not to me. I really don't like unnatural word order inversion, not only here, but generally - what's wrong with 'don't turn to me'?

Impossible angel
that runs not to me. Again, this reads clunkily to me.

But runs to the deep sea's emptiness
in the white frothed wave that follows
the moon's pale lamp of loneliness great imagery and sound, but three in a row - deep sea's emptiness, white frothed wave, and moon's pale lamp - feels overladen.
that burns not for me. Works not for me.

I've read this a few times now. There's a great heart to it but I think you can trim more.