Wednesday, 8 August 2018

A poem by Jane Salmons


after Jean-Paul Basquiat

Beneath the great granite legs
of Brooklyn Bridge, a pair
of dustheads are out of their skulls.
The first spins and whirls in a frenzy,
convinced he’s James Brown on stage
at the Apollo. A beam of white neon pours
from his heart straight to the hearts
of his worshipping fans. Arms raised
in triumph, he grins. Now he casts
off his gold cape, drops to his knees
as if a pilgrim at the bridge’s altar
and screeches please god please.
But his friend hears only the jaw-grind
of the city devouring spray cans
garbage, spewing raw veins. Enlarged
their eyes swirl like raging gutters.

Jane Salmons is a teacher living and working in Stourbridge in the West Midlands. Her poems have appeared in various online magazines including Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Lake, The Ekphrastic Review, Algebra of Owls and Snakeskin. In addition to writing poetry, she enjoys creating handmade photomontage collage.

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