We spent our thunder in East End stagger,
imbibing jellied eels sharked from shadows
underlying Tower Bridge stained Silver Jubilee.
Irish weavers once spilled their angels on those docks;
Leather Apron boiled fetid fog, tempested theists.
You induced me along gashes of geodesic graffiti
enlivening crooked curry houses, inner city chattel,
fidgety railway bridge partitions retailing
kitschy orchards, botanic rainboots
in the shambolic underpass.
In a charismatic kilt and Victorian tourmaline,
I descended brick basement bookshops,
jubilating in the heirloom halo,
thumbprint burning your impassive palm.
Cancan robots, unbaptized bohemian Bentleys
depicted the dilettantish din
borderless throughout enameled back alleys.
Electrified with Rhubarb Sours and feeling alien,
I disoriented your voltage in a biting brasserie
swirling with coriander, chilies, cardamom.
The last time you lost me in Shoreditch,
I was procuring bouquets of Harper’s Bazaar,
pocketing hints of old-world Chanel,
lacing Queensbridge Road into my hue.
