(LONDON)
Bald females, their skin
grey and overripe as an apple,
stroll there in the attire of men,
feet booted with muck and rain.
They box, shriek into cellars’ depths,
at doorways barred, shutters closed;
and hard fists break the bones
of bare chests and gaunt brows.
Young girls whose age lies
fix the lingering passer-by
with eyes of beaming flesh
through the black holes of their dress.
The gin warms and marinades the shadow
lends the atmosphere a special flavour;
drunks drop in the gutter
with a dark curse in clenched teeth.
But minstrels dance there, merrily;
and on an old theatre’s gold pediment,
two white globes of plaster seem to burn
causing affront to the blazing firmament.