On London Bridge

And the journey over down the Thames path through the clean Breughel crowds then down the narrow criminal streets by the glittering reaches of the sun setting skies that held London down like a pregnant belly under two warm slim hands.

Another girl sat in her little dress on the edge of her bed, listening, her little ears listening, crossing her legs this way and that way, folding her arms, concentrating; arranging the hem of her dress on her knee; Serious as the corner of a tree in a picture of the mind where the wind came to rest. Her eyes arose like two waterfalls and her smile grew clowning. She juggled with trays of food and empty cups and revealed her fears for the world, starting here and now.

Like the gentleman of a Dorset field in summer’s honesty, as agreeable as a post box made of rubies and clotted cream. his palms were pictures of kings and queens that glittered across the twilight like an old film whose lips spoke of old 78’s played on old record players as if they were bottles of vintage wine, he left us behind as if we were his orphan family.

And Paul stuck up an image from the mantelpiece of the moon where photographs of tube way lights and river lights and skylights swung open and behind the wall stood his mother and his father so clerical, so clinical so office minded and so money minded. As he threw the orange heavy with juice and life and it rolled on the carpet like a wayward satellite.

And he kept turning round and looking at me and staring at me as if he was looking down a long dark road at the end of which the darkness had shattered into a thousand pieces of broken glass that couldn’t breathe. For he brought something alien into the room, something like a broken statue, broken into a thousand fragments mixed with bayonets and wrapped in an alien flag. And his breath was of London air and nightmare, of the swing, of a trapeze and of old broken pavements.

As we walked back over London Bridge she talked about the relationships and her mind began to open and flow like a river. In the corner of her eye a cold star exploded like love on an empty road from nowhere.
The engineering works on the bridge was boarded up; it felt hard against my back like the fear of hearing the words from long lost thoughts that rained upwards from a river of darkness.
How I loved her confusion, her torture, her doubt, her humanity and the small ever-moving window in the grand hall of her lost red firework of a soul, flowing into the night under London Bridge.

Author: blackbird212012

I am interested in multimedia work: songwriting, art, and creative writing. I have been involved also in theatre and music performances.

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