The quiet servants to  a neon god
walk beneath blind stars.
The sightless man sits, as two lovers pass
him by, under his feet the ground the changes colour,
Off  time with the chatter that surrounds me.
He takes the hand of an elderly celestial
and they exit the scene
the way of waves.

Laughter explodes like a bombshell
the only casualty is silence.
Through the steel arch I watch
ivory wave burn the black
rippled
sea.

A child chases a seagull
through the slits of sea-fog
caught in the light.

The barmaid leaves and my eye follows her,
resting on the corpses  of our  modern age;
bullet ridden with boredom and the chill,
swathed in the sear cloth of modernity
and eyes glazed by ***.
They wait.
The "Sons of the Silent age"
who's thoughts are as stolen
as this line,
stolen from greater men.
The Lindbergh baby has grown up.

I bear witness to the silence and pressure
of the girl to my left, it  encroaches this space  as
her gaze encroaches the distance.

These streets were once filled with the
flotsam
of wasted  youth,
the steady stream of touristry.
Now, in the winter
they lay empty, cold and pecked
by the multitudinous hordes of bird and man alike.
Where once they writhed with life
now they sit dormant and sleep atomic
on a chill stream,
at once both mirror and glass to our
wonderous world.

If we are the dreamers and music makers,
then  our instruments sleep in dust
and our dreams walk silent in this defeat
of waking.