Dark Albion

The chair she sat in, like a gaudy Gaudi
Glowing with gauche taste, framed her
pale shoulders and her black evening dress.
Under the tungsten light her hair tumbled in tresses
pinned back into submission,
while foundations, cremes and colours were
expertly applied.

"I could really do without this party -
I'm all over the place this weekend. I feel really
stressed out. Maybe I should look for another
job. Still ..."

She passed to paint her crimson pout, a harsh
burst in her snow-white apple cheeks.

"I can't believe what a dump this hotel is either -
five stars my fucking arse. Still ..."

The kohl-black pencil arched her eyebrows as they
knitted together in frustrated concentration.

"There's apparently good money to be invested in one of these
places. Niall and DeeDee - you remember them, the ones with
the 4 bedroom place in Primrose Hill - worth a fortune now that
place and they got it for a song!

Well anyway when Niall lost his job
and was out of work for 18 months he invested some of his
golden handshake into one of these hotel chains in the city.
Absolute goldmine apparently. Deedee's bought a brand new
BMW convertible
with some of the profits and their little girl, oh what's her name...
Francesa I think ...

Well anyway they've bought her a pony! I mean
who can afford one of those in London!"

I sat on the bed pulling on my boots, oblivious.

"You're not very talkative today are you? Honestly I sometimes wonder
if you listen to a word I say. I mean what kind of relationship is this?
I mean yes, we sleep together every night - but that's the problem it is
just sleep. Intelligent conversation? Romance? Forget it ..."

A huge sigh escaped her as she threaded golden twists into her lobes.
I threaded a silver-watch chain through the buttonholes of the
waistcoat and stared out into the cold grey April drizzle beyond the pane.

She fastened her black hosiery as it cut into her white thigh flesh
- like the white belly of the underclass her skin bruised and cruel -
slightly beguiling, slightly obscene.

Around her decolletage and bare shoulders she began to
apply the aspirants gaudy glow -
the faked tan a middle class sop to our middle class
means.

Outside the wasted lands of dark Albion rebuked no reply -
Our ancient sceptred land, shivering in the damp under
dark grey skies, pregnant thunderheads threatening the grey
peoples beneath them bereft of ambition and whatever.

Yet papier-maché mephistopheles am I, caught in a twenty second
catch contemplating my reflection of the drizzle spattered pane
as I drift further away from the chatter of her - apathetically
dreaming of my gutter, lying back, looking past all the greener
grass around me to focus on these stars.

August 2008