An Ordinary Saturday Night-Shift Lunch Break

An iridescent snow-white full moon,
Shimmers and spotlights the River Thames,
Silvery black oil inflected waves,
Snake and lap and undulate,
Lazily but curiously,
Around the neon party boats,
Booming music and soundtrack laughter,
Drum on my erotic thoughts,
On my night-shift lunch hour.

As I stroll to the newsagents,
For my crisps and chocolate,
Generic Latino beats mix in,
Simmer,
And blow down dark heat from that club.
Wonder what the girls look like,
I want to go imagineering,
The most spectacular oral pleasures they will ever know,
Or at least better than so-so,
Whoah!
Where am I going with this?
No, No, No!

Oh,
But I want my chocolate-chip flavoured crisps also.

Thank you.

Now I must return,
My Saturday night-shift lunch break,
Will soon be over,
I stroll back to the Dalek's head,
The waves surround-sound,
A cosmic sweep of a thousand distant, deep bells,
Ethereal,
Melting chimes sigh down,
Splashing from the moon steeples,
Showering the drunken choirs,
Floating on their rainbows rising.

Away!
I feel presence:
The swooping, gliding lunar shadows,
As,
Winged and dancing angels' feathers,
Touch,
Touch.
I'm not even drunk.

Yes,
The night-shift has its benefits.