Want to Support The Wolves why not buy the story of The Mannequins
"Those roads that run freeways between
All our souls.
Roads most of us will never cross
Instead we’ll stand and look across our street
Like a lonely Mannequin daring to dream"
On winter nights
The Antarctic wind
Can be full of razor blades
And it hunts past all these up-for-lease stores
For a homeless soul to cut
Into the grave.
But the clever ones huddle
Around the base
Of the rubbished heart.
A sculpture created
From trash welded together and bronzed into
The Heart of Chapel Street.
And the homeless claim if you sing their story right
Then deep in the night this heart will beat
And their love will keep you warm.
Tonight he lit a cigarette
As she lay curled inside their sleeping bag
And as he looked down the empty street
The tram rails reflected Chapel’s string of Pearls.
And as she coughed, and then coughed again
He could hear those razor blades.
So after placing his cigarette in her freezing lips
He wrapped his arm around her
And with their backs leaning up against the heart,
He sang . . .
He was a mannequin in a Bridal hire shop
He’d been wearing his tuxedo for years.
Brought over from France
His look was Valentino’s
Though the sun had long faded
His black painted, plastic hair.
She was a mannequin across the street
In the window of an elegant boutique.
And from her metal stand
To the molded wave in her hair
To him she was the dawn and the sunset
The night’s rain varnishing Chapel Street
A bouquet of flowers being carried between
The space they could never breach.
She was the only reason he had re-woken
After decades keeping his inner eyes closed.
Oh if only he could find some way to reach her
He’d melt the corners of her perfect mouth
Frozen by her maker’s permanent frown
But the way that they had posed her
She stared down Chapel street.
He wasn’t even sure
If she knew
That he was here.
In another world they would be alive
And he’d cross this narrow street
Where with bare feet breaking broken glass
They’d take hold of each other’s hand
Then run off to wherever there was out there
for two Mannequins to reach.
And the first step of their new life
Would be her constant pose
Which looked to him
Like her creator
Had trapped her within
Some forgotten poem.
Yet despite his love being so far-away
He knew down to his joints of steel
that one day things would change.
For in every single hour
that dragged before his blue painted eyes
He prayed to his Great Plastic God . . .
He was praying to him now
As a 78 tram rolled on by
And as the parked, uber-eater drivers dreamt
A young man pasted a sign to his window
that read, “esaeL roF”
The sun painting the sidewalk
Side lit cracks and cigarette butts.
It had never managed to reach her window.
It had never touched her plastic skin.
Today she was dreaming that it was bathing her
In a long and haloed kiss.
Behind her her owners were arguing
Which was all they ever did.
They were grumbling about another rent increase-
Outrageous, greedy. It should be against the law
While down the street the sun-soaked people raced
As if they all had somewhere to go
And their destinations were a constant ache
In here, where we have bones.
And this ache was the sharpest when
The lovers laughed and embraced.
And her solitude would have been too much to bear
If it wasn’t that three times a week
When they changed her dress yet again
She’d see in a mirror a mannequin posed
Like a full-sized wedding cake doll.
He was covered in a dust that she longed to blow free
But today as they roughly yanked her dress off
And one of her owners snapped, Will you please calm down,
She saw that the window was empty -
That her mannequin was gone
And his emptiness travelled deep inside her
Until she felt like she was falling down
And the best reflection to capture all of this
Was her perfectly molded frown.
Look Dad, Gino said
While waltzing the mannequin around the store.
Careful with him, his Dad replied
He could be worth a buck or two.
They’d removed his tuxedo a few days ago,
Then they’d leant him naked against the wall
Where he couldn’t see her anymore.
All he could see through the dusty window
Was the slow, rolling, 78 trams.
But now as he twirled in Gino’s arms
He was able to steal a glance or two
As forlorn she stared,
At the poetry
That was Chapel Street.
Then Gino tripped on the rolled-up lino
And together they fell to the concrete floor
That caught the back of the mannequin’s head
With a sharp, plastic crack.
Fabriqué en France, Tony read
The metal plate riveted to the mannequin’s neck
See, I told you he was he was worth a buck or two
But now thanks to you he’s not worth shit.
The night came on so very slow
Like an answer whose question was a sea of stars
And as a rat smelt his pondering face
He wondered if all of these little lights
Were his dreamed of far-away worlds.
Then the old moon peered over the edge of the skip
To find the Mannequin laying upon the trash,
And to the Mannequin the moon was a plastic plate
Serving an old man’s squashed up face.
And in the place where all our hearts ache
An emptiness began to sing
For he knew at once
That this must be
His Great Plastic God.
Will they make it? Or is their love an impossible one?