Over by the door shell-suited layabouts
Catcalled the swanky clientele;
Strange signals from flirty fashionistas
In far out drag, voyeuristic, futuristic,
It was like some film noir melodrama
Glittering lights and a roving spot
She took the stage with a sequined flourish
All hot hair, sparkly nails and
Up line coffee charisma.
Displaced neo-nihilist blues warped into
A screw-loose spectacular
Whammo! Bammo! Thank You Mambo!
Number, infrequent and moderate violence,
PG Certificate unsuitable for children.
Radical chicanery:
The lippy bootylicious beautician
With a smokey eye look,
And a string bikini,
Nostalgic for the age of silent cinema
That open moment when there were no
Swinging soundtracks, Psych or Garage,
Enjoyed a foxy line in booze and bop.
While a hotel receptionist at a corner table
Pouted longingly at her wild child escort
A phantom picked up earlier on the Metro,
A sleazy crooner in a stained tuxedo
Well, yes, actually!
Ignoring her obligatory dirt-poor upbringing
The orchestra swung into another cool strip-o-rama
Jazz head chronic turbo hand-held number
On easy-roll locking castors.
And another thing
The Divine Touch Unisex Salon
Is where it’s at baby. On-trend?
Ask our experts.
This is a frozen waste of emotional destitution
Dark, sordid backstreets,
Pulses of rain,
Cheesy nights out,
Crosswords and puzzles off the menu,
Kaleidoscopic montage of interior shots
Mirrors, chrome, lost time
Half asleep in the early hours
Resplendent in a box-pleat maxi
And peep toe heels
She re-writes the art of the real as
An Open Moment.
Thank you.
illus: A Solitary Dream, 2002
