Come home,
my mother's voice suggests along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling.

Come home to the hazy heat
that beats off melting pavement and wilting plants,
to the smell of exhaust
squeezing between buildings
and suburbs and rush hour and neon lights,

Come home to the aggravated traffic
wending its way through concrete landscapes
eight lane snakes placating
the clack and hum of underground trains
packed with people and briefcases and beers and graffiti
spilling out onto the streets like cough syrup glugging out of the bottle.

You sound like you need to come home.

Nah, I'm good Ma,
because I don't know how to tell you
the city makes me feel trapped

a little creature with an anxious heart
boxed in by the tarseal and the fumes and the noise.

I like knowing the borders of a town
that doesn't stretch to the horizon
driving quietly on sleeping streets in the night time
and tracing the coastline with my feet in the water

I need the sky to touch the ground, not the ragged edges of a skyline
to walk until there's nothing
but me and the bush and the birds,
and the smell of mud and dirt and rain.

I like it here, I suggest along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling,
but I do miss you.

city vs town and a bit of a ramble.

When fall comes to town,
lovers, letters, and leaves
reunite on the sidewalks,
broken, burnt and brown.

ella 6d

I want to be in Capri Italy.
a somewhat cloudy day
the streets are still a little quiet
unfamiliar birds singing to each other.
it's 5am and we walk together
down a road that overlooks
the ocean, with few little boats.
we stop for a second to capture this
tiny moment and breathe in the
foggy crisp air.
you can hear the ocean from this high point
whispering as if putting a baby to sleep.
we waited as the large glowing sphere
rose slowly into the dull morning sky
casting sunbeams in every direction while
it illuminated the sleepy town
I stared out as the colors made by the rising sun changed,
growing more vivid with the passing time.
...

I want to visit Capri Italy
so hopelessly
Bret Nov 12

I used to go for walks.
I'd sit on a park bench by the water
And watch the waves come in
Like they're supposed to.
I guess I found comfort in their consistency.
My legs would freeze
My ears would burn
But I wouldn't leave until I thought
I felt what I needed to feel
I understood what I needed to know.

I don't go for walks anymore.
This town is too small
And I'm too scared
I'll see you
Shotgun
In a car that isn't mine.

I've tried to bite the bullet.
They don't taste like bullets anymore.

Ophelia O Nov 8

the town moves swinging
invisible paths conduct
bobbing heads through
a newborn brook
did you hear? she-
whispering notes of
clamorous silence;
the world's
heavy breath
guides us

Alya Ali Nov 3

My town
The cute little town
Nature keeps some of its wealth there
Not many people know about it
How lucky if they could go there

My town
Warm town, warm people
Warm memory attached to it
History becomes his witness

My town
far
but
close to the heart

A town that became the witness of my life

The great, green Giant sleeps all through the day;
beer-bellied, toes outstretched, dipping into the sea.
He lazes beneath the springtime sun, while we sit idly
anticipating possibilities and to-bes.

This dead castle bursts with life,
seagulls, and sandwiches,
and cameras capturing the view
onto something they can hold;
something graspable.

                *

The Giant disappears at night;
merging with the mountains.
Fading into the dark, as the waning moon
creeps up behind and over and above;
dripping reflections to feel a connection
with the earth again.

Lovers wander now, wandering through the flirting streets
which tease with uncertainty, and curtain the
awe-striking depth of the darkness that dumbs their speech
as they 'turn at this corner and just along the promenade..'.

Pushed back by a blast of wind;
numbing hands cold.
Forcing them away from
prolonging a gaze on the Sea's cruel honesty;
knowing they would be driven mad
by endless questions of eternity.

Questions they attempted to drown out with music and dancing
and Tequila shots and the kissing and the music and the dancing...

But now in the air, by this high-tide, they are
Modern-age-small-town-philosophers.
'Have you ever seen the petrified forest?'
Will they tell stories of us too?
Life is so short and now is certain, well...
as certain as certain could be known for certain so..'

So, after meditating on the existence of existence,
they find refuge in the optimistic light of the stars.
Warmth for the spirit from the deep, dark, cold depth of the darkness;
'Because the night is so very young.
Look, there are still stars in the sky...'

Venus is inconsistent; an evening and a morning star.
And, oh, is that Orion's belt?


         Lying on the floor, in the morning, after a night of philosophy.

Written early 2015. (Was reading a lot of T. S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas at the time... and reading it back I can really hear it).

The building's boarded up
The sign says ‘to let’
It’s from an era
We want to forget

It’s been left to rot
The place is a wreck
Not fit for a squat
Like an old bike shed
It’s from an era
We want to forget

The building looks sad
And sorry for itself
Just like your old books
On the back of your shelf
Covered in dust
And rust
And soot
And shit
This once former glory
Is now a sad old story
It’s derelict and destroyed
And no longer makes noise
It’s seen it all
Now it’s time for bed

It’s from an era
We want to forget

Alexander Sep 22

A late night with friends,
I have come home at last.
The pain in my head is ceaseless,
My body reeks of ash.

That is the smell of my city,
Soot and smoke,
Its anthem?
The murmur of the crowds.

All of them are idividuals of their own
Yet we walk, breathe and talk as one.
Day, night, rain, or whichever time
I'll still love this merry city of mine.

Be like the wind

You are the wind

You don't bend or break

No procedures are in place for you

Run up against it, flow around

Not out of strength

But out of the hush

Out of the whistle

Out of sound

The wind is nothing

The wind is everything

More than anything that could ever be built

Because the wind will always be

Around

In every lung and every city

Whipping through the whistlers town

"New obsession, next depression" is well said!
Next page