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Weather Report

Sea Vista fluoresces like luminous eels;



someone painted this place cream



and never touched it again.



You can't get that colour anymore,



just cream, you say;



flakes detach from the facade



and join in the general descent.



 



The tint of the rain drops' perpetual concerto



misses, by about none,



the lilac of the waltzes of the tea room.



So much liquid, is it all required?



Take cappuccino or lip gloss,



those suspensions of our age,



or the actual rain:



clouds (mauve semblance of what is)



accumulate as if instructed by old masters.



And when you think about it, El Greco's wrist



did live its life inches from the very threshold of creation:



the canvases like culture mediums,



spread with florets of grim hues and him



drawing out the grand designs into being



through the tip of the brush.



 



And as if to prove conclusively



that there is madness in Methodism,



the sign outside the mock-gothic hall says:



In the Midst of Life we are in Death



but you, you wear the ludicrous sea-side hats



of self-aggrandisement, as if the gust



that tossed the last one into the sea



was your own idea: not content



with wrapping yourself up



in love, only love, love,



you do no more than write an epigraph for us



on the back of the old hotel



with its seen better days



and panoramic lounge-bar:



 



THEY CAME THEY SAW THEY CAME



 



Ha Ha Ha, you went.



Don't perpetrate mirth like that,



you spray-can El Greco,



I said, and I noticed



the soft flesh of your wrist



and wanted you again.

 
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