Saxophone sirens in dissonant symphony
with horn blare of hurtling hornet blur taxi cabs,
streets speckled with spectators
come to watch the world burn
in the embers of their cigarette butts.
You
stand alone, still,
aside from the lurch in your stomach
at each fresh cacophony and jostle
from sultry sulphur infused life, nameless bodies that scurry past.
Tap tap tap of toes upon those cigarette butts
crushed into curb corners,
flares sparking whilst smog shrouds
dishevelled buildings, ripped up posters flailing like flags
proclaiming an Atlantis amongst the ruins,
stale yesterdays wrapped in chip fat grease
and smashed bottle shards carving lost lovers
into your bleeding heart, abandoned hopes
of a better life.
Where is that you go to?
Wherever makes you feel less alone,
less dead within your bones.
Yet the thrill of city life only leaves you
hollowed.
For a moment, the city glitters
as sunlight reflects off wing mirrors and windows.
Every vehicle transfixed in standstill,
bowing to an artificial red glow.
Here the sun never sets.
Lauren Winson
Article images courtesy of Miraage.clicks (https://flic.kr/p/dcJTsB) via Flickr.
Image use licence here.
