05-08-2017, 10:37 PM
A DECEMBER MIDNIGHT IN PARIS.
From giggly passages of ground breaking erections,
Past transparent blue yet impermeable nightgowns,
Come double decker routes heading two directions;
To either nearby junctions or far away towns.
Gathered across in varied shapes and sizes
Are fuel powered rodents in perfect alignment,
Waiting and watching up until the sun rises,
Ready to pursue their master's next assignment.
Two blocks ahead, in her fading peach splendour,
The friendless monster bids you a hopeless goodnight.
She puts to bed her perceived slender
And falls to rest, though standing upright.
Below the fleeting rareness of the purple night
Stands the skeletal remnants of a once blooming trade
Whose absence left a party pleading for light.
Below is not age, but deprivation in its darkest shade.
By this hour, frost engulfs benches and rails,
And the faint glimmer of lamp posts guides no one,
For most lie in bed dreaming up tails,
Except for one man, whose bird nest hair was far from done.
Glued on him were fragmented sheets of faded flannel
And the occasional patch of harsh, malnourished skin.
As he approached, he arrested our flowing channel,
And kindly asked us, with a mined out sort of grin:
Could you spare us any change lads?
At change the colour of his song had fiercely decayed.
Perhaps capital for him was a painfully distant trade.
It then became clear to me, I'm afraid,
That I again saw deprivation, it its darkest shade.
From giggly passages of ground breaking erections,
Past transparent blue yet impermeable nightgowns,
Come double decker routes heading two directions;
To either nearby junctions or far away towns.
Gathered across in varied shapes and sizes
Are fuel powered rodents in perfect alignment,
Waiting and watching up until the sun rises,
Ready to pursue their master's next assignment.
Two blocks ahead, in her fading peach splendour,
The friendless monster bids you a hopeless goodnight.
She puts to bed her perceived slender
And falls to rest, though standing upright.
Below the fleeting rareness of the purple night
Stands the skeletal remnants of a once blooming trade
Whose absence left a party pleading for light.
Below is not age, but deprivation in its darkest shade.
By this hour, frost engulfs benches and rails,
And the faint glimmer of lamp posts guides no one,
For most lie in bed dreaming up tails,
Except for one man, whose bird nest hair was far from done.
Glued on him were fragmented sheets of faded flannel
And the occasional patch of harsh, malnourished skin.
As he approached, he arrested our flowing channel,
And kindly asked us, with a mined out sort of grin:
Could you spare us any change lads?
At change the colour of his song had fiercely decayed.
Perhaps capital for him was a painfully distant trade.
It then became clear to me, I'm afraid,
That I again saw deprivation, it its darkest shade.