Blackpool Lacrimosa

Blackpool Lacrimosa

(Text written in Blackpool, Northern England. About a wanderer I observed on the beach).

At the colorful pier,
the rotten big wheel still clanks
like it did fifty years ago.
Those teenage sticky kisses
oh, they still find their way

through the rusty screws.
Young wandering hands are in no-man's land
rolling over the gloomy sea,
and they come and go like the British wayward tides,
soft and rosy as the cheeks of a saint
the waves go,
and so they go teenage trembling hearts
sailing in the dawnlight.

It looks like the candy floss sellers
are announcing your death tonight.
The sick lights and it all
takes you back
to the old maid's song of old-fashioned weddings.


The moanings of your first girl
are your anthem.
And you quietly hum it while you sew your ulcers
on the cobalt blue shadow.

41 years old and you still think about her,
and about how you and the sun teamed up
to clumsily kiss her shy tights,
to awkwardly love her fussy ways.

Your life - an unforgivable mistake! just like a tattoo at 4 a. m.,
it is bathed on alcohol and early regrets.

Your life:
- sour-milk mornings,
- mourning nights.

An easy ride across the green mile.

You are a sad memory,
as sorrowful as flowers tied up to a guardrail.

Somber like that tiny lace ribbon
tied up to her twelve-year-old ankle
that still makes you choke everynight.

© Text: Victoria Bardot
    Image: Abduction of Ganymede