Art de Vivre after Veuve Clicquot

This poem was inspired by a trip to Maison Assouline, London, on Saturday 12th February 2022 with Georgina Walker.

Maison Assouline.

A grade two listed refuge;

The deities deluge -

In the heart of Piccadilly Circus.

Elephant balls and human currents

Chauffeur culture seeking sightseers

Into a world of bourgeois books

And deduced debauchery;

A logical conclusion.

An august illusion.

Saturday’s setting sun,

Sunk into a chasm of rose quartz.

Hues of taffy, fuchsia and cerise,

Skipped through a celestial masterpiece.

The hum of Mamma Mia echoed in ecstasy.

A clink of a drink,

A surreptitious smile,

Crept through the alleys

Of Tottenham Court Road –

Whereupon the weekend of Valentine’s Day

Love is bestowed

To every lane –

In pursuit of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

Buoyant on brilliant bubbles,

They flounced down the fictitious streets of Fitzrovia –

Impatient for life,

For adventure,

For fun –

Elated on the art of a modernist pun

(Dying daily with the midnight sun).

They laughed in a perpetual present

Of timeworn books

And golden ivy,

Immersed in ecstatic air -

Embraced in Veuve Clicquot’s mirthful snare.

“I often think that the night is more alive

And more richly coloured than the day.”

Van Gogh used to say.

At twilight,

London's West End,

Daubed in gold-leaf,

Reflects through soul gazing puddles

Into the city's twinkling night sky -

Painted with hues of the most ‘intense violets, blues and greens’;

Emerald adorned dreams.

So it seems -

To those who star gaze

And notice this vast expanse

Ablaze.

‘A wink of the eye and winking stars’

Composed Kerouac’s debauched memoirs -

As he rolled through temporal bars,

And drove on in celestial cars,

To Neverwhere.

The night stirred in drunken euphoria.

Dancing delusions of daiquiri

Greeted their enchanted minds.

Pubs winked, pints beamed,

Soho gleamed

Under the veil of

Veuve Clicquot.

The world was splendidly

Aglow.