Underground space always alive. Awake.
Laughter, clinking glasses, dancing heels
the song of the sax
chant of the cello
pull of the piano.
Each ever-moving body
is clad, head to toe,
in golds and silvers
twinkling like stars, at night
with every jig.
Suit and tie are mandatory, here.
Mystery is kept
by smoky whispers of cigars,
dimly lit lamps
perfect for the rumbling
of romance…
And their eyes haven’t seen
straight
for hours. Days, weeks, years…
Intoxicated with the blur
of dark liquids and small pills.
But legs don’t crumble, here.
Strengthened by mirth;
Coaxed by fast-friends
Even the Top Dogs that bark
and bite
laugh here.
Lords at war with their postcode laws, broken
– by neighbouring Kings.
Heads in beds, don’t sleep.
But there’s peace at the watering hole
Lion and lamb both drink.
