Naïve

I wiped the astral dust from the walls and cleared my throat to applause. The skeletons dance, eyeless, hung up on their stolen hearts, like a lost string on a violin. Humming in chorus, they spin their sentiments between their legs. Outside the rain is stripped bare by the turn of death...

The scent of beer…their soft hearts are not serious…They are naïve like the blue of Christmas.

I go where the homeless gather on the Victorian promenade and sit quietly, waiting for the opera of the skies…I drink lemonade by the sea, vaguely hearing the calm of the warm spring. Old men read stiff newspapers, their mad hearts covered by a bend of a tie…a young couple kiss and softly shiver…

And pigeons rally for food… modestly performing their colossal act…their soft hearts are not serious….They are naïve like the blue of Christmas.