The city speaks not -
not to me with its cemetery tinnitus
or my sunset hamstrings.
Inky railtrack scents
settle in the air
and bricks turn Gods into mad hares.
All the people alive in slots
flapjacked on top of each other
like salted, suited herrings.
Mourn the last soiled stubs of purity
as storms of foul accents
echo through swamp alleys like tin arias
while wooded glades fall to cider pits.
And still the corpses walk
unaware of death,
muted hocks of mutton following the motions
after losing heart to glass wilderness.
There are none more still
nor dulled
than cityt hawks wingless on mottled pavements...
@Steven Francis poems 2010
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
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