Selma

The end of lovely days, honour her great freedom, a scimitar hand of fate, for the cafe's and diners, who take their nights ease, under yellow electric lights, not your village maze, these hardened streets, caught between wreaths of shame, Our lady bides her time, she knows these sweet seasons, eves with a little wine, where debts get paid, beneath cooling trees, blue air in cigar subways, no matter what they say nothing will release, love for that other place, why she crossed the sea.

Rhianna

The love you blew away, by troubles on the line, is now absolved delayed, when seasons turn pink, don’t keep emotions reined, or seek a calendar to forgive, stick with certain phrases, that stand the test of time, celebrate a life at bay, difficult questions make you think, you’ve bathed in lime, drunk at the kitchen sink, you dance the holy grail, as problems rise, dancing is not to blame, cafe's swell with drink, fancy waiters may opine, laugh the way you blink, dazzled in your crystalline.

Quinta

When she dismisses us, calls us jokers and thieves, we believe in you sister, for following a star, by leaving us the sea, caring who we are, teaching us our limits, what resides out of reach, when lovers try to pivot, she cares a lot, arms swinging free, even if we dance on cars, from the telegraph bush, or a sky that weeps, to look upon our fullness, she’ll tell the bar, as sunlight leaps, across bottles and no marks, what’s necessary to be.

Patsy

When did I start crying, was it going back to Ireland, or with my son sighing, Nana loved the horses, that first summer not flying, the ferry runs its course, or my lover saying, she can't take any more, decisions we keep delaying, a crescent summer force, we crash away the ties, that make us stand in awe, a broken path of clifftop fables, no one checks our disguise, the blue cover of her table, better than any jackdaw, our love makes us wise, in death she’s still a force, moonlight’s on our side

Odeta

Painters dream of lovers, museums are lonely places, even in silks and linen, you glide across the room, is that really your game, telling the world your gloom, from summer troubles, and different spaces, does this provide a cover, your face, a scar, a swoon, an early grave, that runs before you dissolute, it masks my wonder, a missal to your fame, one masterpiece sunken, in gas lit winter catacombs, leave your scent of trace, heaven for us to look upon, honour, shame, disgrace.

Nula

God is a breakfast test, Spring in my lover's trauma, don't I feel blessed, sailing dangerously, with her list of disorders, the troubles start with me, when I refuse to get distressed, this tremendous performance, all makes a sort of sense, howling like a banshee, her complaints grow enormous, big wind through the trees, her risen voice no contest, I try a little metaphor, before she reaches the crest, offer chocolates to see, if the kitchen jukebox roars, will everything fall on me, I grow weak, seek rest, now there is another detour, she suddenly wants to confess, acts like she isn’t born.

Marina

She sees the creep of moon, regular as the five and dime, lilac across the dunes, fish on Friday creatures, the kids who drink wine, have no use for teachers, men who want women, to enlighten their lives, someone to come soon, summer mornings at the beach, a hand that slides behind, like a twisted leech, but the ball the swimming, she’d give her life, not to cook dinner, and laughs at the cheek, that someone delights, in storms across the reach, instead of a good time.