Flesh coloured lies
Those young men chasing flesh coloured lies
up and down Hope Street provoked by the scent
of their self emitting pheromones
I was one of them
Remarkable that I can see it now, still feel it, the tang
of unspent fuel from this far away and marvel at that useless
energy expended in the blind pursuit of trophies that tarnish
over time, the gleam and the warmth going off
like the promise on a barcode – spoken lines that perish
soon after the front door has closed.
And yet, and yet, it is still so close,
desire tangible even at arm’s length when the lustre and throb
of a dreamlike race, a chimera, ceases to release itself from euphoria
It is always tugging at my sleeves, on a corner, waving with the romance
of a promise that was in truth left floating on the breeze called vanity
Oh pathos, why cling to me?
Now that I share my thoughts with friends who have travelled the same streets
and find that most of them are out of breath, long past the chase but ready
to reminisce as if the child within was still at play, still choosing
to chase flesh coloured lies. Still making parodies of our former selves.