a poem by Anna Navarro
I wonder about when City got so hideous.
If it was born like that out of man hands and
hard hats, or if City aged and got ugly from too
much cigarette smoke at two in the morning
swirling on a naked stranger’s navel,
Moon creeps in through high rise eyes for a glimpse,
City getting unlovely again.
Maybe City got creased concrete
eating nothing and drinking plenty,
or City got creased concrete
cursing in church.
Well, City got old or City got hideous. Sky’s
the colour of vomit and entrails of people sucked up
spit out by plus fifteens at eight fifteen,
and they were glad they didn’t make it to work.
City is teeming with
cigarettes and liquor and sex
and coffee and fuck you
and dead people and no god
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