The bottles redly close an unborn sound.
Here come the liberators who will set
Free actions which were tightly bound.
Aggressors in jeans and evening dress, the brash
Music of these fitted marmosets,
Brimming in clothes, brings the bated crash:
This is splendid value for a pound.
One girl undressed because she thought it right;
Another, trained in truth, watched what she did
Loving her mirrored love, her second sight.
A judge of conduct gasped to see the fun,
A valued impotence safe in his head—
A private creature staring out the sun
Not warmed by it is seeing by its light.
Oh this is arrogant the dancers say.
The conjured revellers are just in touch,
Which witness moves them dancing as they sway.
Wallflowers at School Balls and pimply men,
Wanting love and made to want too much,
May not be saved; ceremonious haters then,
Their world rebels where first it would obey.
All coats lie fallen on the party floor
Where an angry guest threw them one by one.
The permutations of love are finished for
One evening. Here we go home, out
Of reach of drunken communion,
Secular saints who do without
Power, a pleasure left behind the door.
But to these aspirations everything belongs.
Here is the bed’s silence, the parcel of
A dream wrapped in dirty songs
Pillow-rehearsed: it is five o’clock
When nobody is making love—
The body floats in the mind, a shock
Of sleep comes, steeped in party wrongs.
© Peter Porter