her hair, silver, atop a skeletal frame, 

reflects the city she lives in, 

conveys eyes back upon themselves

she is crammed full of something


to see her is to be worried, 

for her and about yourself, 

to know her is to know absence, 

the gaping hole in the centre of your soul. 

i still wander her streets, 

half entranced and half despair, 

bemoaning another left hand turn, 

down an alley that leads, 

to one lascivious door, 

up a murky set of stairs, 

upon a squeeking corridor, 

back out into the smoky air, 

this time on ground, 

100 metres in the sky. 

confusion has me beholden, 

it squeezes my cheek, 

and with a knowing glance, 

gives me a slap, 

licks me somewhere near my lips, 

and re-applies my handcuffs.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s