Hot Moon Echoes Whirlwind

Nice one if you read this.

Head-scarfed and grimacing
are Munchs' physcho faces,
huddled outside newsagents
in the rasping wind
facing the stark sky, untalkative.
Mornings spent re-tracing, revisiting
and waiting in queues.
Slow moving buses pulse
through sinuous streets,
lumbering past the
re-mortgaged outskirts.
See Munchs' physcho faces
squirming homeward
to ironing boards
and washing baskets,
through neglected pathways
and shat -splattered railings,
past murky puddles
and weedy crevices.
Hear them breathing hoarsely
yearning for relaxation,
yearning to draw
down blinds at dusk
and begin chain-smoking
with yellow soles propped
up on coffee-tables

Madly burns the evening sun
descending leisurely,
It's hot light throngs the window-panes
and swells the desire for alcohol.
For some, that time has already resumed
cigarettes are being lit
crisp notes lie coiled in wallets,
and pensive love is being satisfied in car-parks.
Yet, as sure as hell is ocean finance
the purple and bronze wedges will thin, and
4am's disorientions will welcome the unshaped dawn
with shrieks, howls, mis-interpretations and pugnacity,
inciting the brawls that trash kebab-houses.

The morning stirs
in carpetless rooms with
the smells of damp and old cologne
then comes the agitated silence
of dreary afternoons where
young lovers tighten their grip and writhe in ecstacy,
old lovers hold hands without any sensation
and the unloved hover in doorways.
Back outside, light refracted in the
sudden movement of swinging glass
presents a young womans squinting
face, leaning out to smoke
and to inquire the streets silence.
Looking out into the harsh thistled distance
grating is the sound of the crows coarse chorus
and the shifting tones of shaded blue-grey hills
smudge the irretrievable horizon.