Mix and Match

smoke and alabaster                          the purity of revelation
baby powder and snow                     east and west, dawn and evening
honey dew and mint cream              the illusion of perfection
ivory and seashell                               surrender and treachery
old lace and linen                                the white knight
lavender blush and ghost                  dead-white faces
floral white and corn silk                  cowardice and cold
parchment and pointing                    the second stage of the Great Work
champagne and vanilla                      virgin sacrifice
cosmic latte and glitter                       mercury poisoning
magnolia and pearl                             the boredom of waiting
flax, eggshell and bone                       death rides a pale horse

 

 

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Photo created by the author

The Selection

The secretary drafts the cries of babies through the opening.
She grades them in order of urgency. Some have already given up.

In the waiting room the candidates twitch in their red plastic cots.
There is an overwhelming smell of sick and shitty nappies.

The secretary ushers in the Headmaster, offers
coffee and biscuits, remembering to flirt with her spider eyes.

 

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Photo by the author

Desire

For the city that speeds, tail to nose
to a scalloped shore and meets with light.
For the city in frozen motion, tarnished
wings poised to embrace the night.
For the city that parties with a glittering heart
but is never satisfied and every morning seeks
enlightenment, the river unwinding
a scrambled horizon to the rising sun.
For the city that guards south from north,
brick to chink, indivisible, a fortress spawning
iron ships for capitalist wars.
The great angel grounded hope
for these iridescent folk seeking stars
and rainbow moons shining in the gutters
of wet streets between discarded kebabs and shit.
The city folk way too stupid, way too smart
to give up looking for an out, in black and white
running easy, gunning for a fight, living
for another goal and one more Saturday night.
For the city where shops are poly-chrome heaven
and bars ooze overflow. The coffee bubbles
froth and bile, the stories spike with rhyme
and folk soak in the sun at picnic tables
while dogs scamper on green swards.
Rebels serenade and lovers dance
unashamed, in the city, for the city,
for the brave.

 

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Original photograph by the author