Chris Tyrimos (15-05-1982)
One last temptation with the stolen silverware,
and a euphemism in the opaque bath water.
One passionate kiss for the illicit, wider readership,
the 'dumb' waiter, secretly a descendant of royal blood.
One sonic set of sky scrapers and yellowed travel cards,
and a shriek of resentful panic at the impromptu school reunion.
One house wife articulates all for a lost generation,
and the Guardian readers are apparently the ‘Golden pacificists.’
One fighter was born with fire in his hands, granite in his chin,
and Love floors him in the twelfth round.
One intellectual has the sudden urge to reject everything, at once,
and throws his books, one by one, in a blue bonfire of the vanities.
One vintage BMW holds three generations of secrets,
and all that’s left is a box of boiled sweets, without companions.
One set of unopened shotgun shells, shelved in a Dadaists cupboard,
and a potential list of victims survive, yet, another, day.
One self righteous adolescent and her missed, clandestine calls,
and we’ll all throw our ‘smartphones’in the inky Thames to pay homage.
One war between Lilith and Adam, on the back of a silk envelope,
and we rent ideas of compassion, happiness, issued in intervals.
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