Thoroughly Modern Man

They come
Petticoats of lace
Moulded to their bodies
A sculpture of deceit
The artist; everywhere you look

Sipping from teacups
Of poison
Their gossip a drone to the ears
Gazes sharp as daggers
Their romance long lost
In the rose bushes lining the streets

In droves, they come
The herd of glamour
Their elegance straight from a magazine
And passers by stop to stare
At this crowd, this famous crowd

They are everywhere
Spiders' lashes and painted faces
Artwork of the highest calibre
Haphazardly placed
Sweet as the knife
As it plunges to your heart

And the boys, they come
Walking the catwalk of life
Staring at the show
Taking their pick of the crowd

But him
He is different
The lone match struck in the darkness
When the electricity is cut.
The shock of colour on a page
Of dull ink.
The new indie
For surely, he is not of this world

But where is he?
And why doesn't he come?
My multicoloured knight
On a chessboard of grey
To sweep me off my feet
And carry me away?

Kirsty