(originally written and blogged 19/09/2009)
At late hours,
It seems like art is everywhere,
Junkies pass you in slow motion,
Apparently waiting for their stories to be written,
Clubbers wail by like sirens on,
Everything bathes in the vibration,
Of pitch Doppler shifting doof doof doof...
Mercifully passing you by,
And you are completely, utterly, soberly here,
Trying to absorb.
Rain makes the streets smell fresh again
And every puddle that light hits,
Reflects a perfectly un-framed photograph,
Each mouthful of food hides a nostalgic anecdote,
Every muffled conversation overheard through a door,
Could becomes experimental music,
Every sentence heard is a line,
And every moment waits for your rapture to burst,
Even as the clock spews forth another,
Late at night this profound world floats out of reach,
~ Too late for your art to find it,
You won’t be able to transplant it to a blank page,
Or an ambitious tongue,
The person beside you stopped listening.
It will just become a mumble you make,
Ah never mind.
It was a moment,
Only able to be held in your own cold hands,
Never meant to be anything else.