Roman matters.
Cloak of antiquity.
Painted on a new dawn.
Etched in each freize.
A high ring of history.
Reliefs of a bygone battle.
Fought on forgotten fields by dead men.
Alabaster creases black with exhaust fumes and tales of a 2000 year old city.
Two thousand and eleven
Rumbles down alleys of ancient Rome.
A soldier in camouflage explores the ruins at 7 and a chinese beggar sells birds made of yellow reeds.
It's Rome in 2000 and 11.
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Curried thoughts in a takeaway boxed skull.
Spicy dreams skipped from forward to fade.
Narrowly slipped lovers-scorned scream in the dream's nightshade Sliding away in my lover's morning yawn.
Night fogged and locked away in the waking,
He sits and watches morning TV in her sunbeam.
And she, mindlessly mindful, tidies and thinks of what could please him and ease her scarrying mind.
A cold swim.
Torn apart by rip curl.
Air ripped, salty spit
Trickles down pebble beaten limbs.
The white horse rides high and fast.
Running hard on sharp stones.
She tries to beat the sea's endless yawn.
One pink body, all this watery brawn.
Wind whipped, rain slicked and wave ripped.

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Birds a necklace to violet lighted spires
Black spots lining the fleeting flash of night darkening skies
Above London's lullaby

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