Monday, 26 September 2011


Shifting under portico’s, unseen.
A hairs breadth from Golden Square,

Oceans apart from Evergreen.

Petit hands just visible beneath cloaked sleeves,
He holds a torch to Liga Privada.
Blunt nostrils dilate to take-in sulphur,
Then, the bitter-sweet,
Darkest chocolate and cognac
-ensconced in mellow-yellow plumes.

Rain drifts in pools beneath his feet,
Like vintage mirrors;
Diffusing neon lights, tracking his hirsute body
And tracing his hemline in café-au-lait.

He’ll stay a while,
Setting down his no.9 to wet thin lips with café noir.
Close-set eyes hoodwink a peek and skim the twilight scene;
The chicanery of Soho streets,
Bi-pedals slip between.

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