(1) Jazz, a Fantasy in Theatreland. (2) Two Pensees.

                     1.

Jazz, a Fantasy in Theatreland. 


The melancholy rat a tat of jazz
Makes me feel peculiarly lazy,
Subterraneum counter culture icky,
Down town street kid crazy,
Back room clubhouse hazy,
Black coffee with my sweetheart in the sleepless half light of a footloose
                                                                                         Soho dawn sicky,
& dead dead dead to the tick a tick a tick a of the mean time monitoring
                                                                                                          clock
In the universal office schlock / prison block
Of the everyday work a day world.


& jazz jazz jazz
is like a grey damp cloth swabbed over my sleep creased work wearied
                                                                                                      eyelids
To keep me awake
But not fully compos mentis
In a strange half light of unfocused slick stick silhouettes
Dancing dancing dancing
Without rhyme or repeatable rhythm
On a flat white tattered screen.


Thus I sit in this Bankside coffee house
As patient as a monk at Compline
But waiting for God knows what.
Perhaps that sylvan winged woman at the cashpoint opposite
Will slash open the white tattered curtain
With a smile of iridescent love,
A love as yet unhinted, unspoken;
Then, with the speed of a pedigree dove, fly in through the cafe window
To airlift me to her stage right paradise.
Or shall I simply get up from the bland coffee table
And lurch blear eyed into the sunshine
Before that guy playing chess in the corner
Throws his killer queen at the radio
To cut the music dead?


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 7th. - 8th. - 9th. 2016.

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                     2.

         Two Pensees.

        
        Porcelain Cup.


This porcelain cup
Is more than a thousand years old
Yet entirely new to me,
Newer than your soft white palm
That now so gently holds it.


                   *

      The White Coat.


My little white coat
That I threw across your bare shoulders
Has become a neat cocoon,
Lightweight, detached and portable,
Your little house of threads.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 4th. 2016.