The peal of the bell,
The smell of the city,
The odour of the town’s underarm,
Listen uneasy to the city’s wreckage,
To the plumbed heights,
Taste the fruit, bite in and it powders on your chin green savoury dust – puff,
Squirt of the city, all on your new jeans,
Rings through the sewage’s browns and greens
Thick water ripples, the city runs through
The city’s the spewer that spews up on you.
Pan fast through the city and it’s brown walls
Pan fast through the wires and the phone calls
Pan fast through the pipes,
Underground the man holes, pop out through the top Torpedo
Look from the clouds Parachute,
Swan, look from the navy night, keep cool in the star’s light
Pan fast over city with a speed unfounded,
Look down, reckless, as the poor stay grounded,
Glide past the city with a soundless motion,
Swoop past the city with a clouded notion of what it’s like to be a rat there
And bear the financial weight and the grating presence of swans.
Flowers on a black background
wound around the stump
pouring out of pallet crates
apple box wood, dainty blues, glitter yellows
one plant with many flowers
buds and vines encircle
take back the city for yourself
wind through cobble cracks
decorate the station and the hands of the people
crown loved one’s dainty heads
drip out of pub windows
make the street a swollen stream of petals
yellow darlings work away
At night, towns feel different.
Things happen in a different way.
I have vivid memories of traipsing round towns feeling bizarre,
feeling detached because something strange or heartbreaking’s happened.
Weird chats happen in smoking areas and outside toilets.
Glass thrown about,
Feeling vulnerable in a sea of faces.
People’s eyes change.
Darkened rooms and arguments you wouldn’t like to come back from.
True fears unleashed as they squabble and blub out words
Lips release them into the night.