Saturday, October 20, 2012

Three A.M., Swansea

I'm the only man on these streets
Water running under my feet is singing
the last number that the D.J.'s spinning.

Though, he isn't here, and there's no music
but the rhythm of my feet, and the cooling sweat
under the leather jacket.

The last living things
under these tangerine stars, with their concrete supports
and the haze of blue-black far above them
are the cats.  Not me.

I died back there
under the lights
inside the beat.
I died, and kept falling
long after the last notes fell out of the air.

Here's my heaven
A city hushed at the footfall of a pale spectre
A boy flying home on the three a.m boots express
through long, flat stretches
and tumbling hills

His eyes are studded with starlight
and the zips on the jacket
are all that`s holding back his wings.

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