1 New Poem

Knives and Swords

You cut through the humid house parties,

the false streamer flags,

the wavering digital bass,

with some sort of old world's grace,

with some sort of 30's film stock shimmer,

moving like a pre-Hayes vixen,

moving like a star dawn horizon,

from East to West, nervous hand tics.

And then you pierce wish-washy

downmarket club smoke greys,

rays of coloured cotton,

prismatic places far gone,

with a kind of ever-binding charm,

with a kind of new-found beauty

spinning like a drunkard's left feet

spinning like a lit fire's ceremony,

from West to East and back again.

You're surgical: precise without meaning,

tools of night-shade dress fabrics, stiletto
but not even those, no, never needed,

your blades' glints are yours alone.