June 27, 2001


High-rise buildings lean
toward each other like
virginal sisters
trying to narrow the space
between themselves
limiting the sunlight’s
allowing Winter’s chill
to linger.

It’s all a façade
Feel the heat they generate.
The portals are opened wide
and their progeny, already
attired in business dress,
pour forth
Searching for sustenance
at the bar next door.

Night time falls and finds them
dressed in gowns of light
seductive to the eye
yet filled with emptiness.
Now their only companions cleaners,
primping, preening and preparing
for the next days trade.
With all in readiness
they are permitted rest.

Posted by Midus at 06:04 PM

June 18, 2001

Montmartre – a Tribute to Henri Toulouse Lautrec

Cheap whores and absinthe
night time becomes the day
floating in a hazy cloud
a crazy cloud while wormwood
rots your brain.
Stunted legs could not your love
of life deny
and so you painted dancers
who flashed theirs to the thigh
and more!
The Can-Can girls
the flirting gay chanteuse
were subjects for your art
and companions in your bed
as long as you could pay the price
to blind their age old eyes.
Paint and sketch
no time to rest
silk screen posters
oil and crayon.
Bright colours filling bill boards
outside the Moulin Rouge.
I have a feeling that acrylics
would have been your forte…
had they been around in your day,
but the mediums you worked in
have lasted through the years.
You take me with you on your midnight
forays through the streets of cobblestones
to watch the aristocracy at play
amidst the cafes and theatres
of seedy old Montmartre.
The glitter and the glamour
are only on the surface
misery and bondage
wearing make-up with a smile.
Somewhere along the way my friend
the booze became your master
and syphlitic paranoia
held you in a grip of death
not wanting to let go.
So sad to watch you falter
when all was at your feet
Paris in its Summer of Love
became your Winter of Defeat.

Posted by Midus at 07:13 AM

June 08, 2001

Paper Boats

Boats made from discarded poetry
leaching ink into the gutter
bring smiles to a child
too young to read of loss
and dreams
finally cleansed of dross
they continue wordless
until the sewer
claims them.

Posted by Midus at 07:27 AM