(a vision or fragments of a dream)
a colour of a lesser bloom
a falling back from that spectrum
which first lit the trees of Eden.
too much black
and the green and blue together,
a colour my toddler might make
when, in vengeful mode,
he wipes the smiling sun
into the wavy sea
and drowns the black boat
crew & every parenthetical seagull
in a grey wash of watercolours.
call it Xanadu because it’s here
in the philodendron jungle
by the sacred river
that the mighty Khan
declared his fun park
with concession stands
delivery docks and back alleys
redolent with frying fish
the stink of hashish,
boiled cabbage and disinfectant.
and here at the back door
of the Pan Pacific Park night club
around 5 am
find the duchesses and the debauchees
stepping out into the green,
blinking, leaning together.
the sidewalk aslant
they go rolling
down xanadu streets
(O perfect colour)
to their turquoise rooms
← This is xanadu, the colour not the place – and for the Weekend Challenge, Sue W has asked for a creative response to the colour with the wonderful name. Also posted at the Open Link Night at Dverse, the poets’ pub where Lillian is hosting from splendid isolation in Boston.
And here’s Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s original fever dream Kubla Khan.