(This tale is told.
This sky is black but so much is obvious,
we know this state of helplessness well,
we are oblivious to the last hope,
we'd rather wallow in implied endings,
and catch the train to sunlit boulevards
we can't know,
it's so old, but we keep moving,)
the angels are on the streets of Amsterdam,
their halos fail at the sign of red lights,
gowns hitched over their thighs,
they wasted their wings,
they choke on their harpstrings,
they carry their heavy hearts in their hands.
the fairies have gone to New York to chase their dreams,
abandoing their wands for
glitter in their eyesockets, for couture on their bulimic hips,
shoelace thoughts pointed towards the flashlights,
and the one watching through the window:
well, she wants to work in the movies,
so she'll hitch a ride to Hollywood and
she'll wait until she's famous.
("Am I beautiful?" I asked you. Your name was hidden.
We were walking down a road at night. The air was cold.
You said: "You're a fucking disaster.")
They lost their magic somehow, so they seek the fake magic of glamour.
They lost beauty and now they have the dirt the rock stars romanticised.
They crave the fake love that lies create of a million people,
because they lost true love along the way.
(I commented how pretty the sky was, "I would wear a cocktail dress that colour,
rent a diamond necklace: I could never afford pretty things."
You told me I was crazy. I stopped fantasizing.
I looked him tearfully in the eye.
"I'm sick of life now, I'm thinking of jumping. I hate you!
Oh fuck it.You were right. I'm a disaster."
You touched my wrist. "I love you, you catastrophe."
And you held me under the streetlight.)