1.
Face to face,
on a high street,
on a sunny afternoon.
We shone our eyes
at one another,
blinking in disbelief,
making strobe-like patterns
from the flashes
of two ironic points of light
in spite of passing masses.
Dizzied
with a sweet sense
of loving success.
Filling myself with
her sweet scent.
The tall sun heated our necks,
and I was flooded with a passion
as consumers trudged by
with their empty bags of fashion.
She stood head and shoulders
above the rest,
and I guessed she
was the one to rescue me
from a fate worse than death.
And this was the moment we met.
I recall the moment
clearly in my memory,
fixed to the eyes
of a girl called Melody,
on top of the hill
in a city prone to flooding,
trying to get her money
through charity mugging.
She was much taller than me
and she made me look up,
her dark beauty in stark contrast
to the midday sun.
I’d decided that I wanted to do good,
and I thought she probably should,
and I thought that I might just fall in love,
and I thought that she possibly would.
Melody studies ancient history
here at the university,
connected to subsequently
rejected philosophy.
Is Melody the one for me?
We’ll wait and see.
2.
Side to side,
at a party,
on a muggy stormy night.
I was dragged
to the floor to chat
to dour people
dressed in black.
She perched above the rest
in a pastel-coloured dress,
and I was
dazzled
with an irrational fear
of loving failure,
filling myself with
stress and pressure.
The intensity of humidity
added to my growing frustration.
My eyes tried to distract,
to attract talk of
conservation, but
she sat ignoring
my obvious request,
and I guessed she
was not the one to rescue me
from a fate worse than death,
and I thought back to the moment
we met.
I try to recall the moment –
it’s fading in my memory.
I’m looking to the eyes
of a girl called Melody,
halfway up a hill
in a city prone to flooding,
trying to get her money
to do some good with.
She was much taller than me.
I had to stretch to her face,
which was fading away
in the afternoon shade.
Still sure that I wanted to do
good,
and sure that she definitely
should,
but not sure that I wanted to fall in love,
and not sure if she possibly
would.
Melody studies ancient history
here at the university,
connected to subsequently
rejected philosophy.
Is Melody the one for me?
We’ll wait and see.
3.
Back to back,
on a tube train,
the day of a solar eclipse.
We narrowed eyes at one another,
recalling our reflections
in the strobe-like patterns
made by flashes
of demonic electric light
amidst consumer masses.
Puzzled, with a dim sense
of recognition.
Filling myself with scent and poison,
the automatic stairs thrust us to a dark end.
We reacquainted there and then;
as consumers pointed to the dark sun
again we bucked the trend as she lay
against a railing,
to explain how she
was chained to
consumer debt,
and I tried to recall the moment we met.
I can’t recall the moment
clearly in memory,
looking for the eyes of a girl called Melody
at the base of the hill as the city starts to flood,
wading through the water, the silt and mud.
She was much stronger than me and I reached for her hand,
to take me away and to reach dry land,
but she refused to do anything good,
as I was sure she probably would.
I didn’t think about falling in love.
I’m not sure if she even could.
No, Melody is not the one for me.
Melody studies ancient history,
Melody studies ancient history,
and Melody is ancient history.