Tungsten (Poem)

Apparently it’s National Poetry Month over there in the grand US of A. Unfortunately, it’s not National Poetry Month here (we have to with ’till October – how lame is that?!).

Anyway, here’s a poem for your reading pleasure.   ^.^



Swaying like a bus
in mid-town traffic
I topple the streets,
fade the pavements
under feet that feel
like cliffs collapsing
into puddles, a thousand
fossils eroding under
the weight of my satchel
and backpack; stubborn
on my shoulders.

The night is a dessert
of drink and drugs,
iced with the screaming
of vultures squatting
in pink tresses, propped
up at the ankles
with plastic scaffolds
that tilt, tempting, tease
the lads into guffaws,
guffs, chest-puffs
and bloody fisticuffs.

Londis is a web
of steel shrinking
from the lights,
ASDA is a solid
sleep of rust,
and the houses creep
away from the roads
so as to avoid
the coloured wattle
that bursts from the bottled
air of hooded teens.


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