Revelry

One freak bubble in traffic flow
silent Shaftesbury Avenue
with not a car in sight

She ascends from Freud
one hair’s thick, gold thread
(so seem summer stones to the sad dead
holding their heat and hearts in droves
the Ancient Dead of a Florida care home
hotter than Hell, Hades or Benidorm)
wrought in flaming yellows
of saffron and primrose

Bedeviling sense of a sensual black hole
marine, Blue Louise, gris bois
and myrtle vert
her breasts, like the ripest fruits that grow
from deep water’s twisted groves

There’s no religion here
or deadly damage done to Catholics
pouring over smut-filled pages

I’m a Sunderland lottery winner in Harrods

She smiles a lime-slice smile
on a village green

J. x