So many little ***** hands reaching out for an empty watering can. The pipe always seems to be closer than it looks. I shut my eyes tight sometimes and let my fingers find a rhythm or lose myself to the whirr. I forget to meditate, or write things down, I browse IG, fall into pattern of searching for familiar names. I find deals online and shop away the panic Settling in, it’s replaced with commercial anticipation- instant gratification-
Jesus ******* Christ I can’t even type with my headphones on, this car is always the obnoxious one I never learn. It’s the closest to the stairwell but I guess I always hope that people would consider That roosters haven’t even crowed yet And maybe whisper?
Artificial city-dwellers Discard all humanity Carbon fired tin cans Pierce the serenity.
Anonymous collisions Fifty floors below Each passer by a stranger You will never know.
Pedestrians, travellers And their vehicles Droplets in a river, Altering the tidal flow.
Irrigation passages Absorb the elements Hedge fund panellists, Bankers and workers flee.
Eye rolling baby boomers Sit, tutting one by one. Nervous millennials adorned In clothes for moths to eat.
Breaking point carriages Century old tunnelling A lone foot tapping And quiet page turning.
Brakes hit the track Piercing the murmur Eighty jarred necks External motion blur.
Sliding carriage doors A not-so-subtle beep Dust kicked from dawn Falls onto the city streets.
Blue tower inhabitants Busting out of the seams Water molecules collide But nothing sinks the fleet.
Smartly suited eye-darters Push and pull for space Rolling up the banks Humanity erased again.
I settle on the brickwork Until the storm retreats Circadian commuters Run to rest their feet.
A few lonely meanders remain Wondering down the beach Forlorn festivies fog over Swinging shop-signs squeak.
As the lighting rig descends And once blue ceiling stains The beige brickwork turns red The high tide admits defeat.
Pink light turns to navy blue A faint moonbeam lights the sky Obscured by one cloud then a few Vague incandescence frames the scene.
The streetlights flicker overhead One worn out passenger now leaves Shrouded, cold, hungry and fulfilled; Abandonment for some is peace.
Kenopsia: The amosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned - a school hallway in the evening, an unlit office on a weekend, an eerie cityscape - making it seem hyper-empty, with a total population in the negative, so conspicuously absent they glow like neon signs.
A sidewalk canvas Half done slush An oil slick Twice frozen ice And boots that slip A train just missed The red eyes glare Rain that floats In sour air Brutalized concrete Bleeding rust Filthy floors And alley walls Spent cigarettes In every nook Steel that shrieks In cold protest Blue lights And a defiant poet On every corner