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Sea Vista fluoresces like luminous eels;
someone painted this place cream
and never touched it again.
You can't get that colour anymore,
just cream, you say;
flakes detach from the facade
and join in the general descent.
The tint of the rain drops' perpetual concerto
misses, by about none,
the lilac of the waltzes of the tea room.
So much liquid, is it all required?
Take cappuccino or lip gloss,
those suspensions of our age,
or the actual rain:
clouds, mauve semblance of what is,
accumulate as if instructed by old masters.
And when you think about it, El Greco's wrist
did live its life inches from the very threshold
of creation:
the canvases like culture mediums
spread with florets of grim hues and him
drawing out the grand designs into being
through the tip of the brush.
But as if to prove conclusively
that there is madness in Methodism,
the sign outside the mock-gothic hall says:
In the Midst of Life we are in Death
but you, you wear the ludicrous sea-side hats
of self aggrandisement, as if the gust
that tossed the last one into the sea
was your own idea: not content
with wrapping yourself up
in love, only love, love,
you do no more than write an epigraph for us
on the back of the old hotel
with its seen better days
and panoramic lounge-bar:
THEY CAME THEY SAW THEY CAME
Ha Ha Ha, you went.
Don't perpetrate mirth like that,
you spray-can El Greco,
I said, and I noticed
the soft flesh of your wrist
and wanted you again.