And Still It Is 9 O' Clock

It is 9 O' Clock and the world is but a confusing macrocosm; in the microcosmic, a beautiful girl dyes her hair while the world continues to deconstruct itself.

It is 9 O’ Clock, and she climbs from the shower;       as she brushes her purple hair, the juicy sinkhole  washes away the violet bleed. The dye glints like a new age song;          so slick and wavy, the curls pawing like kittens                at her water-beaded figure.   Like some of us, she is beautiful, and by some chromosome          she eats and grows thinner -                To me, she is the most beautiful creature that ever lived. And still it is 9 O’ Clock, and beyond the sleepy town           is a miserable city.  It chants and hollers, and fettered lights           like to burn at the city’s broken slumber as if a new artificial day has arisen, and the tired world       can once again no longer sleep. Beyond the vague steel walls of the city’s flat facade              is a white forte piano. A girl with eyes and fingers as delicate as the lilt of a violin        thumbs the black keys  and shimmies the white bars      as if to send the broken city back to bed. And still it is 9 O’ Clock,        and Kerouac is stirring in his grave                mourning at the poetry and the cigarettes           wondering what happened    to the telephone.                What becomes of a world that is connected through an intangible medium             through the mere connection of light; what becomes of Love? And still it is 9 O’ Clock         and like the thrashing discord between notes      the hurried city still thrives like flung shrapnel. In my bold opinion, I believe that Ravel predicted through music, space and time          the speeding flavour of the 21st century.    crash, sift, rift, carry on      - I just can’t make sense of this world any longer. And still it is 9 O’ Clock.            Breaking News, Mathew Lewis, BBC:                     “The Poem Is Dead, and the perfume kids run riot with their forgotten love.            Can we have a William Blake Can we have a Shakespeare Can we have an Armitage Just to fill this era of empty passion and literature?” And still it is 9 O’ Clock,    and it seems everything I do, eat and desire            is wrapped in a plastic packet.                         When the jumper in the shop window Crafted by a black man and his dying children     Is a symbol of colonialism, of greed            I feel the desire to take a stance upon it and knit my own fashion. But like every capitalist junkie,            I wish to have its feathered stripes its beautiful wool And still it is 9 O’ Clock,          and I know more of the computer screen than I do of reality.      I know that the sun shines                and the birds play           and that the children on my road, funny as they are do exactly the same.              And still, my friends, it is 9 O’ Clock                 as atheists dance and Christians twirl Buddhists hum and Mormons swirl,                        the Scientologist dedicates her life-long savings to find out the second word for the soul. And still my beautiful girl           hidden away from this shattering racket               this horrible, uneasy world        finds solace in the brown pages of the Discworld.              I like to imagine her Dressed in blue, her hair so vibrantly red curled up, damp from her shower                             safe in her room                      So very safe from the cracked spines and pointed, rusted needles        Away from Sarah Palin, away from Catholicism     no part in the second Gulf war, no hand in Zimbabwe     no relation to Putin, Che or Hume. It is One past 9 O’ Clock     and my baby curls into bed with me on the telephone              waxing lyrical about no broken bones  -         just her and her dusty, post-1950’s home and how funny it feels             to no longer be alone.