Reflections In An Undertaker’s Window

Sat on the top deck of a number 25 bus
to Green Street I watched myself casually
stroll against the Lowry-ish commuters
all to and fro with their antsy occupations.
I noted I was nonchalantly
looking in the window
of the undertaker’s parlour opposite
the ‘Live and Let Live’ pub
on the Romford Road, peering down
into a party I had once been to in the basement.
A distant youth. Far away music …

I and Justine (soft collide).
An unknowing PreRaphaelite,
eyes devoted to succumb
to the passions of her edacious
teenage cunt. ‘Electric Ladyland’
distilled the damp
underground air; carnal deep
breathless to frantic.
La petite morte victorious,
unshrouded, we lay on top
of a polished oak coffin. I’m buried
in the garden of her long
dark hair. She sensuously languid.

The scent of Justine
had already begun to evaporate
when street lamps were snuffed
like yellow candles
into the morning’s coughs.
As my spluttering steps tracked
their way home I saw myself
on the top deck of a number 25 bus.
I was gazing out of the dirty window
on my way to work, vacant in blue grey
cigarette haze. It was raining,
and I was soaked to the skin
with the tyranny of humdrum.

©2007 P.A.Levy
First Published 2008 by Neon