VOYELLES
“A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,”
Tristan Tzara in a tux
floating
through Paris,
down Rimbaud’s Seine
face-up, regaling
cultural savages on a grand piano,
passing under bridges
bathed in blue light
(who knew
there were perspectives
from which the gendarme
might look
so spiritual)
forgetful bridges of
ethereal engineering.
And then, the hoardings suddenly scream:
Nightfall! Nightfall! Man-
eater escaped from
local asylum.
This is not the road.
vertical or horizontal, it
is
not the path
perpetual treadmill or
ancient escalator heading up
or down
but far less luminous here
already out of the precincts,
heading
for the estuary
way
beyond the rapids
where once
the whole shebang
in the flood
of creativity and
the politics that runs
with it
rides astride
caught
in a raw, red blood-rush
adrenaline adulation
chaos and order fighting
their glorious great battles
so much music
deep in
cacophony