Angels

I saw two angels
kissing on the corner,
lipping each other
in an all-consuming ritual.

The old,
the ones whom missed the war
but saw the bombs,
think passion is dead,
but passion still exists.

It dwells beneath
lamplight,
on dark street corners,
in the mouths of the young.

Violence is dead
and the world is perfect
whilst these seraphims
kiss, spittle and hungry will
on their lips.

Their mouths seek
the fruit of love;
their hands seek
the gods of sensation,
to feel, to hold
to shake the opprobrium
of the lost love of old.