Brummie Soul
The 50 buz on an infinity tour,
burnt umber bricks
one day closer to decay,
old men on the mornin’ boozer,
a milliun voices dissolvin’ into one.
Bells chime on the doors of Zen,
eyes lingerin’ over herbal remedies,
strangled by sandul-wood clowds.
Crystul healin’,
paypabacks on death of the ego.
Never buy,
street scammer storays,
mindlesslay recited over and over,
as they wear the latest Gucci attiyah
and dunt even remember talkin’ to yah.
Moseley,
churnin’ out the next generation of bo’emian spirits.
Walkin’ as everybody smiles at you.
Pete the Feet, child of the sixties
vending his handmade lightahs and leathers,
tellin’ tales of his psychedelic past.
Spaghetti junction spiralling you dizzay,
canawls eclipse those of Venice,
Bull gambols for Chinese tourists
and Dog Pool Lane,
reduced to silly humour again.
Dealers in the gully,
throwin’ in that extra gram for customer loyaltay,
almost believin’ in friendship,
well aware of the bat in
the boot.
But love was all we knew.
Aromas of the village chippy
invite us in.
Planted in Tramps Triangle inhalin’
curry sauce, chips and chayse,
never expect to eat in peace.
The Munkey Man,
name unknown.
Stuffed gorilla in rickety pram,
matching costumes, of cowese,
beltin’ out red red wine.
Lundun businessmen
with charcoal suits
and slitherin’ smiles
and hoongray eyes,
those bloody monay robots
will never steal the sowl of the Brummay.
The Young Ladies of Avignon
Curtain opens,
stabbing glance,
masked mistresses perform
their enchanting dance.
Legs sprawled neat,
cloudy white silk,
breasts pointed,
salmon pink.
Suck in spotlight,
bold confrontations,
clientele charmed,
reeled in by fascinations.
Soulless visions,
muted vibrance,
atmosphere dense,
ruled by
female dominance.
Repeated routine,
scarlet lights glitter,
ugly greets beauty,
men’s voices layer.
Crescent smile,
mutating to frown,
as the eyelid curtain
drapes down.
Daphne’s [INTRO ONLY]
After a short while, she ascended from her seat like an arch-angel and edged towards me. Her hair was the first thing I noticed; fluid apricot curls twirled as she approached. She had a similar clothing style to Kate Bush, with its witchy style and flowing sheer fabrics. This woman was no minimalist; it appeared that she was wearing her whole jewellery collection as if she could not decide on what pieces she liked best. She wore a mixture of hand-dyed wooden beads layered with delicate dainty silvers. I pretended to not notice her and proceeded to wiggle my nose into a magazine about aeroplane engines that was on the oak coffee table. She landed next to me with her head tilted to the side. I looked up and smiled apprehensively; her eyes were a colour I had never seen, a calcite-green shade with yellow glowing around the edges of her iris. I directed my eyes back to the magazine with the hope that she would receive the message.
With a slow serenity, she claimed, “I have the solutions that you’re looking for”. Her pallid face exerted a certain wisdom about the world. You could tell that she had lived. The deeply carved wrinkles around her eyes suggested to me that she smiled often. My voice was plucked from my throat. But she continued regardless, “Take my card, my honey, it has all the details that you need. I can help you”. I could feel the moist heat of her breath, reminding me that she was a step too close to my face.