Moulin Rouge

In close proximity eye catches eye,
and perfumes and conversations collide.
Chair grinds chair as silhouettes settle,
and in the melee sharp-suited waiters
charge tables of chatter with champagne
spiked with the ferment of anticipation.
As lights drop black and smalltalk falls away
a hushed frisson becomes a temporary host.

Seemingly limitless the stage explodes
in a frenetic tapestry of flesh
overlaid with blades of colour and sound.
We look on at lithe toned thighs
and the shimmy of supple buttocks.
With kicks from the end of endless legs,
the proud and the pert proclaim woman.

The girls scream and shriek,
as Cancan cartwheels career
in a timeless tableau,
with high kicks and ankle spins
and long legs leading
in frantic fusion fly forward,
thrown to the ground
to split and split again
in tricolours of French frivolity.

The girls scream and shriek,
as Cancan cartwheels career
in a timeless tableau,
with high kicks and ankle spins
and long legs leading
in frantic fusion fly forward,
thrown to the ground
to split and split again
in tricolours of French frivolity.

The speed and the relentless precision
consumes
as we clap, we shout, we cheer.
Pirates, soldiers, jockeys, and clowns
painted in a pastiche of playful colour.
Red luminous lips
in a tantalising tease
as eyes sparkle
in mascara-made moments
drawing us to a drizzling collage,
a finale of twinkling lights
in a ferment of flesh and foaming feathers.

Stepping out in to the Pigalle night
we see the electric white sails slice
the rich purple-red render of light
thrown up in a cacophony of colour
- only to run down the high walls
and out into the dark - dropping low
to catch the night in a neon net.
Deep inside, the ruby drapes spill down;
the plush texture wraps all with a scarlet kiss
as a pimpernel pattern of lanterns
draw eyes to the sleeping stage.