Remnant

A lone figure strolls amongst the beige and vanilla bodies –
a remnant of 1970’s cool.

With a confident strut he shimmers along the street-
an exclamation mark amongst a sea of
full stops.

His lean figure is clad in layers of retro cloth –
his legs are concealed in tight fitting black jeans-
hemmed by a pair of chunky black boots with silver clasps.

His slender torso is adorned with a loose fitting golden blazer-
embellished with red roses and animal print.

As he effortlessly navigates the crowds –
drifting and aloof –
black fringing hangs loosely from his jacket and reaches to the back of his knees -
it tangles and sways with his languid movements.

Marc Bolan incarnate.

The afternoon sun starts to sink -
it creates an auburn glow around his thick curly brown hair that
reaches to his shoulders.
It is partly hidden under a wide brimmed black hat –
the kind Gothic rock bands Fields of the Nephilim would wear.

I’ve seen him before.

Or at least I think I have.

He’s gone now –
out of my sight.

Perhaps he is a mirage –
a phosphorescent pool of desire igniting a yearning I can’t quite put my finger on.

A trick of refracted light emanating from the sky –
summer heat creating an atmospheric disturbance-
pushing into my unconscious a fluid and ephemeral spirit.

He is both masculine and feminine –
not androgynous but
liberated and rebelliously replenishing to an increasingly gentrified world view.

He is a slip of authenticity that seems to be disappearing far too rapidly from the world -
a wayward and kaleidoscopic essence of a flourishing and alternate cultural capital-
that is hastily retreating.

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