We called it the wireless,
glowing lime green on its own shelf
flanked by plastic posies;
votive offerings to a humming diety
Ah, the 'low decadent decade'
when Sally Bowles invented black
stockings and poets thought Germany
shone with ideas worth thinking.
'You remember the time
you fooled me
into kissing the fat girl.
I didn't know the word then,
now I know that you were - buxom.
Blonde mane loose, those brown clips
were meant for sisters, spinsters,
Time, the callous miner, gathers my hours,
Beats each shallow moment until it's bent
And pitted, fitted into lines and scars
That point behind to show the way I went.
Someplace, within the wool of thought,
A voice, maybe not mine,
Investigates - aspects.
I see them
passing in the street,
chatting amongst themselves.
Rushes shade the shallows,
dark heads nod -
agreeing with the breeze.
Rogue muscles taunt lips
into a prospect smile - little
prospect of hilarity.
Checked consonants spurt and splutter,