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Mioan

The sombre storm
howl and howl,
split open has the twilight hour,
savage gales down blackened scars
prowl and prowl,
darkness the feeble façades
and still dreams of this northern city
ravages and ravages.

Mioan, daughter of this land,
dolls up in the glint of her pad,
a Babyshambles siren being cast,
gaudy clothes laid for tonight’s show,
today’s toil fading into the fog,
dance of life, dance of lust,
time to sow the seeds for tomorrow’s harvest,
time to bury the bones of yesterday’s sorrow,
ancient rites of renewal.

Stars blindfolded, swirls of gloom
on the lawn mooring the still time,
gnomes in pain reel under wails
descending down Earth’s jaws,
the gangs of the grey boredom preying
on the Chinese takeaway, darkness scattering,
to town in the number sixty two bus she goes,
primeval myths hiss down glitz row.

Frenzied flesh and scornful lips,
nose ring and false diamond
in bare midriff,
oblivious to the violent gusts of dust that beat
the weariness of back alleys and wide streets,
all she can hear in her madding head is the beat,
the wind that in the bones ululates,
the profound cry of the streets
drowning the electrons of emptiness,
enfolding the dog’s stoic silence,
as she dances and swings and swirls and takes
your breath away with her bewildering smile,
dark eyes flaming, and leaves you raging.

A preying grin hollow words slips in,
a praying mantis’ glossy lips reds in
the murky waves down crack alley.
The sensuality of the topography of desires
he plunders and plunders
to the disdain of the cold stare of a lens,
the impertinence of a rough wall
on her scowling back
lingers on
to the impudent stare of half eaten kebabs,
drunken condoms and soon to be dead rats.
His lips, his blood, his entrails
she ravages and ravages,
skinhead cats lick their paws, feigning indifference
to the show unfolding below their magnificence,
the dark moon teasing behind the midnight gloom.

Hollow rats scurry along hidden crevices.

Out she spits him. Empty. He drops. Silence.
The flock greets her, back she is in the beat
as she dances and swings and swirls and takes
your guts away, dark eyes flaming,
shattering the streets of disdain.

Seagulls shriek in the incoming breeze,

warmongering,
they missile style skydive
onto the grimy graves of yesterday’s neon dreams.

The cry has faded
into the dawn

a whisper
lingers on

© Pablo Luis González, August 2007