Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The City

Taste it with the tip of your comatose tongue,
happiness in its endlessly salivating form.
Wrap it around your little pinkie finger,
dipped in a deceivingly clean skyline,
replaced by Ben’s nine foot hour hand,
as its chimes silence the heavy noises
of multicultural underground feet
going nowhere, anywhere, somewhere,
ignoring the virtue of right handed patience,
so they can arrive a quarter of a minute
before the stipulated time.

Smell it with the nostrils of your oversensitive nose,
the calm cold winter air penetrating your lungs.
Suck yourself into this pleasurable whirlwind
of feisty independence, vinegared by
unrecognisable enigmas
in warrior-like suits,
cleverly crafted in such a way
so as to avoid scented shadows
from escaping to the beyond.

Hold on to it before see you laters turn
into temporary goodbyes,
before familiar certainties question your attempt
at playing nice.

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