Papier-mâché

The week crumpled into a ball and discarded
faces we wore folded in on its surfaces
interior origami of the past
paper refuse, recyclate
mâchéd in the rain or machine
pulped to new purpose
and un-Friday-nightable.

The fresh perfume
in the first evaporations of alcohol
meets the taper of expectation
and IGNITES
like pure hydrogen in a test tube
filling the street
with the humidity of possibility.

Lariats of laughter
cracked through the air.
Lit windows are new stars
competing with gravity,
we spin in the pause between two
and
d
e
s
c
e
n
d.

Pockets light before coinage
the shrapnel of fractions
from rounds of notes
- easy to flag down bar staff
with a sterling banner.

The fist hit of pils
on the lips and the tongue
the purity of the premier cigarette
with its sincere cruelty
at the gum line,
& on the throat.

Right now,
we could carry on forever.

James Piers Taylor, 1st November 2006 - Ormskirk

IMAGE: L'anglais Warener au Moulin Rouge (1892) by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.