A Frank, 21st Century Woman

With no propriety, you turned
To me in my discovery of
A too brief audacity
"So old-fashioned and fair..."
This is what you wrote to me
In double History, I thought,
For a dare...workbook all bare
You waited as I wrote some care
Some rubbish, something debonair
On cheap paper, stuck in Stalin's ascent,
Seventh chapter

Eight hundred nights yonder
We ambled down some street
K Town, at daybreak
Ninehundredth new slate, just
Like us when we made it,
Merely memory bright...
But mystical powder waits
Like alchemy in our veins
Turning gazes huge, tongues leaden
With the weight of our secrets' sake,
Stirred from the depths of another
Secret morning akin to this, forgotten
Discarded as dark, absent, untrue, rotten;
Last millenia's festering dress of 'blue'
Or fag ash grey, before we got cotton

A poisoned bible and poison perfect pictures,
Our only souvenirs; photographs faded,
Some depicting the War, torn from familiar walls,
Dipped in Dutch beer, and that is all
All we have of that year