I read the poem as a work in progress at the open mic night in St Annes last night and have made a couple of judicious changes to it as a result. See what you think...
And The Sirens Sweetly Sing Early evening light is leaking
out of wintry Blackpool skies; this is Central Drive preparing for the assault which will arrive in the bleakest hours of darkness. On the corner stands the hashman with his pockets full of wares, tabs and twists to suit all comers. Surreptitious stare the housewives hurrying home with bingo winnings, when the sirens start to sing.
Cats inhabit undercarland staring wise into the night, keeping counsel, keeping foxwatch. As the stars wheel cross the heavens, hear the druggies spit and swear at throwing-out and throwing-up time. Rowdy revellers stagger past, cursing as they slip on dogshit, shouting into mobile phones as if we need to share their dramas, while the sirens sweetly sing.
Midnight pissers water lamp-posts, roosting gulls look unconcerned, branches dance in manic patterns weaving wavering shadow shows choreographed by chilling wind. Some lovers moan on squeaky bedsprings, passion filtering through the blinds, while others consummate in doorways coupling like there’s no tomorrow, steamy breath and muffled cries rise as the sirens sweetly sing.
Weeds grow rampant in the gutters, eerie flowerings of the night; on the pavement someone mutters ‘Oh god help me, I am bleeding.’ There is no one else in sight. A lonely bird begins to warble, ushers in another day; frozen trails on Central Drive, the evidence of last night’s traffic glinting in the pre-dawn half-light as the sirens fade away. Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S :-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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