I was under no illusions as we escaped the city
Watching the night and lost in the wisps of live music.
I thought of the Jetstream of the 60’s dream
A concrete moment in 1967 that cracked by December
When flats grew cold and the hippies froze
Then the dream deferred leapt into the sordid 90’s
When cockroach parliamentarians were as drunk as Withnail
And I saw the final remnants of peace and love in
The cocaine afterglow of cool Britannia
With flags plastered on champagne skin
And close fitting ribcages. I snapped from my remembrances
And naïve theorizing as the motorway lights blinded me
And I grasped my knees in fear thinking
‘Oh god’ but father began to harmonize as I considered
The majesty and mechanics of Nick Drakes right hand
Whispering William Blake innocence in the haze of Jane in autumn.
No need for obsolete baroque impersonations
The fashions of a company bleed into the rebellion
Streaming through the veins of psychedelic teens
Who wear bellbottom jeans to compensate for lack of personality
Could I borrow something as simple as a cigarette?
A line of code or a coda in the delicate prayer of jazz?
Or can I weave words into days, hours into ribbons,
Dresses into snow. Sudden stops. Can’t see
The traffic cones five feet in front of me
Sudden burst, could cold thought
Be any cheaper in city brains?
False nihilism, dust on wooden floors
A disease tended to with ennui
And nobody stops to care.