...a deathly serenade...

fabric, whilst the man from 83 moves through the
dark alleyway opposite...the smell of kiwi fruit
simmers from within the kitchen...the light roar
of a nearby train hurtling along instigates ideas
on forlorn characters going into a myriad of
schema all rather disparate but also exceedingly
similar in the London glare...
...I chance the thought that I have
escaped, though Maria marinates this escape into
a feeling that amounts to melancholy, though not
outright sadness, instead a gentle sigh reduces
the happenings to a lightness, that I soon joke of
by telling Maria that I am becoming deaf, the
heart is often ransacked by the daily dose of
antics that sojourn, the absurd remnants of the
town’s manifestations of indifferences, rough
handlings, opportunities...
...sat up against the leather bedrest, the
Eagle manoeuvring around the window sill,
Maria now amounting to reflections on Leila, the
dry taste of whiskey on the tip of the tongue
alleviating a further seriousness to Maria’s
continuing dictum, the nestle of wind against a
tall tree just outside 83’s garden soon governing
the idea that observations of this kind elicit a
bewildering feeling about the weight of the
world, the exactitude of chaos that reigns and
instigates...
...though the candour of the rustling
leaves penetrates throughout the rest of the night
into dawn...where Maria is mumbling
incomprehensible words...
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