Dusk

Dusk prays for me to transform. The suited and booted waltz into plush watering holes. Afternoon drinkers sprinkle out like temporal confetti quizzically pondering “where now?”. Seasoned playas pimp chrome hydraulics down zebra crossings. Tourists stir their souls with titillation at the ringing bells of Big Ben. “Usher-ishly caught up” in the ephemeral. All are blind as bats. Everything falls quicker than MartiKa’s Toy Soldiers.

Homeless men with unkempt K9’s sport worn-out beards, clasp to burnt bedspreads begging wayfarers for bread- their laments and acid desperation gather pitiless dust amongst wanna-be urbanites. A Nokia is answered. A Louis Vuitton is shouldered. Meandering amidst this urban madness you’re gaze stabs me with a deeper incision each time. No more licking wounds. That biological clock of ours is ticking faster than an Enzo burning tarmac.

Dusk prays for me to transform. My lips thirst for an early Martini and spirited conversation about cinema and a lifelong commitment. You and I, eerily hunting an unattainable target. Internal solace. Tougher than Penn tracking down Del Toro. A reckless meaningless rat-race chase. Inspiration is a muse that visits us at diverse moments. Guess what-it visits me no more !!

Your germs energetically alive in my blood. Every bleeding cell. I sense your distant presence as a sign quixotically declares ‘waiting room please’. It dawns upon me that you erratically sink headlong into inevitable insecurities. Anorexic anxieties.

Dusk prays for me to transform. Out the pavement through the sliding doors of life into a crowded capsule of deafening music and empty conversation. Your spirit shaped with rumors; a cesspool of redundant make-do conversation. You long for some certainty yet remain consumed by the transient. One cannot run with the hares and hunt with the hounds. Oh babe the system swallows you like a Tsunami as though you are its natural victim.

Near the window demur adrenalised heavies: a display of muscle by a brain-dead bravado boys’ brigade. Flexing their biceps with cocksure certainty of their cocooned survival. Purple Haze to their lungs and lives !! Their noise distracts me from a nucleus: You.

Channel 4 news has us inattentively listening to mindless murmurs by champagne socialists. We re-live the Blairite beacon as punters speculate on election expletives. “She” listens to Blair holler, bark, entranced by his showmanship, craftsmanship and delivery: reminiscent of bowlers during the Ashes. “She” absorbs the ‘All hail’ speech, breathing in his words like Himalayan air- She’s no Palin mountain-climber. Purposely pretending to be distracted?

French reds are the need of the hour. On the table across pseudo-intellectual rhetoric slogans are tossed around the table like poker cards by Saville-Row sartorial spastics. Clowns spitting into the wind. Dominating their deadening conversation: Bush and Blair, Mush and Mugabe, Oscar Wilde wit, the FT’s biblical LSE index and lager-loutish spasms- who gives a toss?

Let these silicone, corduroyed Sloanie crusaders take on the world’s troubles like Bruce Almighty. They will suffer amnesia the moment they pounce back to their prized zip codes, mistresses and Chardonnay. Their Polaroid anorexic snapshot existences will click away without a flash.

Dusk prays for me to transform. Blood-red buses blitz past the clobber. My blood-red patience wears thinner than a bulimia-laden epidemic. You are earnestly drinking and fair-mindedly chewing on Davidoffs. Spraining to invoke the illusion of permanence. There is NONE.

Some mockingbirds will never sing. They never capture the tune. Question to you: are we on the same hymn sheet? Time is a revocable privilege. Figure “us” out. Do it quick. Internally you long for a glittering magic trick.

A burning miracle that would rouse, spur and transform you – with the flick of a Houdini wand. Stop you from crushing. Cease the crumbling. Sundown is eclipsing forever. The hours are closing in quicker and deeper than Virginia Woolf’s last gasps of desperation. Escape dusk or leap into eternal darkness?

Dusk is veering toward pitch black.

It’s crunch time;

Both yours and mine.

The choice is Now.

Or Never.