I think the problem is that I can't stop seeing the world in black and white

Voice resounding in my head
(timpani)
Melodyharmony
everythinginbetween
harmonymelody

I­n the bloom of your
sprite-like youth.

You were His first creation
Women constructed from your broken ribs
and all else from dust
as you shall be.

Bodies of cracked red earth and
Sunshine
Of absent goodnight kisses
and cigarettes.

Skin to skin
Sweat to sweat
(whose is whose)

You
made of
Brittle bones rattling through your sighs
Pulsing through the sinews of your legs
hidden beneath thin skin
pale
beating, feeble heart


Who can tell from my lying eyes
behind the blackandwhite bandanna
(peekaboo)
Of a folded
diaphanous paper moon
amid a field of stars.

The West End wanders in my recollection
like a quiet madman. All the times we were
reminded of the War, pointed out the bullet-riddled
walls of the Old Tate, the Arch, guided through the
rooms where Churchill walked. All that aside,
we looked to keep homesickness in its box with strong
black beer or red, by wandering Regent's Park strewn with
fallen gold, or the Garden's rioting roar of flowers, apples, oranges, potatoes and
all of it turning to the ceaseless industry of men and women.
Mystery was the grey-haired Underground men, grey clothes
stuffed with crumpled paper. Once, I stumbled on a scrap
of unreclaimed, timeless London: shattered glass and rubble
carpeting the dull ceramic tile. Ghosts and dusk entered
where ceiling once had been, the silence of a grainy,
blackandwhite Blitz echoing.