CHELSEA 1977

 
 
The evening air is ripe and falls  
To the ground and floats on the Thames  
 
You sip lager alone by the  
Open door and watch the harvest  
 
At the bar and on the tables  
Fruitful words are piling their aims  
 
Into neighbouring laps and wait  
To be watered with compliments  
 
The Kings Road ripples unnoticed  
You've not been picked by mistake? Arms,  
 
Hands out, you pull the tide forward  
And drink it's juice without asking  
 
          - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
 
You drift through a wood of tourists  
The blue tint in your hair the sky  
 
Penetrating through their branches  
To the undergrowth of World's End  
 
Where less than trendy natives drink  
Without bright clothes to catch the eye,  
 
Like petals, of the tourist bee  
And so are never seen or picked  
 
As all the punks and poseurs are  
But simply hang around to die  
 
An unromantic wino's death  
In winter when the migrants leave.