Ah Walkabout,

What sweet sounds swell from inside
Your sapphire depths. Mismatched with care;
The Harmony from the latest party hits
And The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
Your oddity attracts posterity.
Swarm seekers of primal movers
And Grinders, queueing for hours into
The night. No one is more of an approver
Than I of your untold corners
In which no-one is found forlorn.

Inside, crowds swell with graceful
Terpsichorean choreography.
Bodies locked in symmetrical
Mating ritual cartography,
Making maps of their partner’s bodies.
Every inch of you is a musical force,
Even in your rest room patrons
Are regaled with coarse songs:
‘No Armani, no punani’ as
They are sprayed with perfumes of class.

Though the night wanes, and the
Pulse-beat heart of music slows,
You stand strong and unchanged and
I know you’ll still be there tomorrow.
Some nights, when I’m wandering
Aimlessly through the streets I think
Of you, your technicolour kisses
On the lips of amber vodka drinks,
And I find myself drawn there
My heart beating in sync with your music.