... later...
stealing through rain-slicked streets
denuded by drizzle
warded by grated shopfronts.
Where logo shopping bag toting ladies
have long since ceased
their caffeinated tarantula - Tarantella.
The courtesan charms of the gas-tronomic strip      tease.
Plats du jour dictate appetite and hexy try-hard cocktails compel: HOLLAAAAA!
Now
only now
the spatter-splashed pavements of the disenchanted malls
can finally
blow
overdue raspberries,
slip killer heels from arthritic toes,
flare up an errant fag.
                                   Driven
by too many café au lait olés
and the unfamiliar neon-lit epilepsy of moooooore
coats/skirts/shoes/knickers and necklaces than I am ever likely to care
to want
to wear     I         can        not
pause. Someone has taken my senses' leave and flung them skywards - great handfuls
of Gatsby clothes.
My eyes covet             repose.
They would mountain climb,
ascend the unmovable mercantile canyons, all adrenalin-feuled concentration,
jingling karabiner and crabbing crampons.
I would baaaay
for a glimpse
of the moon (if I were not completely predisposed to blameless behaviour).
It is then            I see      you:
lapped by tender light,
unselfconscious as a Spree River nude.
Small hands poised atop a balcony rail -
shy silver-eyes that have lit
by chance
and will shortly flutter free -
throwing the whole world into scowling chiaroscuro.