Chopin & The Chilli Wars

Smooth piano in a Chinese living room;
someone put Chopin on to smiles
and plays an autumn evening of white silk dresses
with assumptions just back from the cricket wars.

So a rich Victorian hypocrisy only reveals my own
in a belly whore-house living room,
whose taste is felt by my listening tongue
as lines fly ceiling sharp, drinking Chopin.

The Chilli Wars, piano banging on the fritter front,
coffee dreams of softness under silk;
sugar shouts, a cream launched barrage,
the piano sings a flash of river wings.

And behind it all, hope warms the notes,
and sings harmony into the flavour screams,
and Paris dreams right back at me
in my journey there, tomorrow.

If you have Real Audio 3, and a 19.2K modem or better, you can hear me read the poem.

Read more poetry, go home, return to It Must Be Christmas, move on to Thirty Hours Near The Western Isles, hear some poetry I've set to music, or send some feedback.

Cyberspace Services Ltd. (at demon, CIX, Compuserve, and Global Internet).