Back To Mine by Karl Powell

Back to mine, then. Too much tequila for one night, too many queues for Llama, too late to start again, too early to waste the weekend, the stars looked too good to ignore playing footsie outside the Dome. It's easy to flag a cab if you know how, and with you it's always easy. Nothing else to do but back to mine, then - to chat, to chill, to chase away the tequila worms and laugh in candlelight and empty rooms.

I just love how I feel lying this close to you. Just laying here, lights out staring at ceilings and everything warm. The way it should be. Arms and legs tired and barefeet happy to be. No longer talking now, just heads touching and eyes elsewhere. On the walls, on the city streets, on the shooting stars that blaze out our names, on the future, on the past, on our palms, on our hands that hold tight the dreams of this night and all the others.

Wherever we lay - your sofa, my bed - everything feels like hammocks should sway, in the warm breeze, watching the stars fall to the whispers of the ocean's call, you and me, it should be, but it can't be, it never will be, well, not yet, maybe. But there is no moment like this one. Right now. There never can and never will be. Just this perfect feeling. You are mine, and I am yours. We share this together.

Candles burn long and we sink deep into vast white pillows, early morning light stretches far and wide, touching the sands of those Indian Ocean daydreams, reading our minds, filling up our time, draining these glasses of all that white wine, your bottle next to mine. I love you I love You I love you. I love this perfect moment and everything it means. Drunk and giddy, ten years younger but I prefer you this much older. Aqua Marina.

Butterflies by Karl Powell

She was winking instead of thinking, blinded by bright lights, llama bars and late nights, had to stop, had to talk, took a taxi, couldn't walk, barefoot dancer, cheeky chancer, honey mermaids, horny milkmaids, Subi howling serenading, no moon listening, no way back, hit the north, hit the road jack, perfect meaning, perfect meeting, two worlds kissing, fire and water, hissing steam, just keen between and keep it clean, those big brown lips lick and preen, coming close, coming far...starts to ride, gotta drive, moon comes up, fires up, busting up, suit up front up, up top up town, gotta ride windows down... pull up to that bumper baby, and drive it in between.

Somewhere At Last by Karl Powell

Man! I'm somewhere at last. Left to play, left to roam, hands in pockets, money to burn, rooms to let, looming play; burning up in dust of night, night Seville, sultry Seville, Sevilla in Seville - I'm somewhere at last! Man!
Woke up late and got up quick, didn't want to get washed up and regret not making it today. Too easy to be burnt up in bed these days - too much sleep on easy street, half asleep on lazy feet, tired eyes not looking straight, eyelids shut in midday heat.
But here! I'm somewhere at last... travelling through a million lights per hour, burning dust and being right, left to play, left to roam, streets turn up, no way back. You should see how fast I move... Man! How can your feet touch the floor? Cobblestones that burn, thighs that bump and grind, old soles travel fast, eyes collide... Man!

Long Way From Home by Karl Powell

The view from her bedroom is brilliant... high up, her window looks down on the city. The curling river is flat and silent. Everything is so still beyond her pane of glass. But there is movement everywhere. Everywhere I look lights are moving. A line of headlights move along the river's foreshore. So much blurs. A glow around each street lamp hangs in the damp winter air. Like chalk dust, low watt emission. In the river, little pin pricks of colour flash in the thick darkness; reds and greens. Blinking coloured lights. Must be for the boats and last ferry home. Even the Bell Tower has lights that change. These fade into each other - purples turn green, becoming blue, sailing daydreams into the evening indigo. Over the Narrows Bridge trails of fairy lights drive into the city. Set by set, two by two. Lights moving and moving. Everything moving. All direction. Everywhere you look there are lights. A great flash lights up the room. There in the reflection of a black night sky I can see her naked body, blonde curls and white tiles. Something to keep out the cold. She switches off the light and darkness returns to the CBD.

Rue Rambuteau by Karl Powell

It's night time at Rue Rambuteau. Almost two in the morning. I'm sitting outside Cafe Au Pere Tranquille once again. Drinking wine once again. God, I could murder a cigar. It's such a beautiful night. All is quiet but things are happening. The clicking wheels of a suitcase are dragged across the Forum des Halles. I just love the how the Latin Quarter can sleep with one eye open. Two Senagalese women share a joke as they walk home. They use long, heavy footsteps, tired almost aching. Jazz pipes out of a bar. An old man passing by bums a cigarette from the table in front of me. Shadows move, black and white hold hands and kiss in the melange of yellow doorlights and the dark. Giant street lamps sift soft creams of buttered light onto the pavement, and a small dog with a black sock in his mouth trots down the street. Paris has left me breathless. Only one other has ever done this to me, and she is far away now. I look up into the thick violet of the night sky. A star shines high above this part of town, high above the skylights and sleeping windows and I smile. Shine on, buddy, and thanks for letting me see this. Bonne Nuit.