Sunday, 22 January 2017


(If it wasn’t for the nights, I think that I could see the light)

It’s all in:

A still born calendar that says it all
is tacked with pritt-stick to the wall.
That patient pacing of the flat,
counting ceramic tiling cracks.
Filth that gritty-sticky to your sole,
grimy nails dust thick with coal.
Bites that callous itch and sore,
those vacant noises from next door.
Rousing sweating in the dark.
Peeling paint from ancient mark.
Why-fie nothing doing, no connection,
blank screen staring with abjection.
Howling traffic, endless hateful,
Karwa drivers grim and grateful.
Concrete, cranes and rust construction,
the gaudy glut of oil production.
Western bar that boasts of sports,
drunks that drink and think home thoughts.
Pairs of friends who gaze at phones,
Single mourners sit silent alone.
The choons the bands play make you grieve,
you can check out but you can never leave.

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