The Dance

"The houses are all gone under the sea.
The dancers are all gone under the hill."
T.S. Eliot

The bells are ringing grey from leaden skies
On trampled granite, blasted black statues.
Poseidon plays in fountains filled with ice
That chills the open faces passing by.
Heads craned to see a sword-thrust to the clouds,
A hundred eyes roll back as if waiting
For sudden rain to wash it all away.
They cluster, cold, round columns, with
The shuffling steps of killers on death row
And circle slowly, freezing to repent
The burning guilt that weighs the lions down.
The statues stare thoughts of mortality
Into the daydreams of the souls below.
Just streets away, the alleys open up
A quiet refuge, slow capillaries
Of rubbish bags, lost theatre-goers, fags,
Discarded gum and vomit stains, kebabs;
Duality of grime beneath facade.
In canyons sheltered from relentless light
Diffused through cloud, an ache behind the eyes
That flares in neon bursts, turned up to meet
The odeon defiance and the rush
Of crushing crowds oblivious on the streets
Of empty light, hollow frivolity.
From casinos and steak houses it seeps,
The momentary warmth of frying fat
In take-out lamb's-blood stew mincing machines.
The night will eat these helpless sheep alive.
The blinding idol burning incarnate
Screams out "We have you now, there's no escape"
And down below lost souls are paralysed,
Struck dumb and humbled by the flashing lights
Of howling billboards giving no respite
Or love or hate or thought or consciousness,
Just frantic choking hands that reach and flail
Into the void. The winter night coming
Fast out of grey impenetrable clouds.
Coquettish mannequins stare derision
Silently through the glass of whore-boutiques
With fabrics, diamonds, sirens under lights,
Blank expressions, and everything's been sold.
The pushing mass is going underground,
The circus lit up as the dark comes down —
The dogs are out, the rabbits rushing home
To burrows, boroughs of suburbia,
Clutching bulging bags of the day's rewards,
They shiver, stamp, and mill in clouds of breath
Condensed by cold, and mixed with cigarette
Smoke billowing from saggy prosperous cheeks.
And only feet away the gutter fills
With refuse, seeping slowly to the drain,
The double yellow lines are sprayed with sick.
The lamps are lit on Oxford Street, fever
Rises to frenzy, orgiastic souls
Rush in and out of cold glass-fronted stores,
In contagious and rabid vanity
They lick the strings of spittle from their chins.
Freezing people are falling on the streets
Into waking death, half-life, futility;
Their throes, so slow, look almost choreographed —
Like insects writhing as they're torn apart,
They dance beneath the cold hypnotic lights.