Maybe just a shadow in the
Shape of London calls me back.
The well-worn alleyways
I have danced and crawled home on
Now feel like the burst capillaries that go unwashed
By the version of the Thames pouring
Into the powder smeared basin
Of a certain someone growing old disgracefully.
The Topshop princesses that
March to the beat of a receipt
Written in 4/4
(I wonder what they do that for?)
Wear kind daisy smiles
That turn to flower-on-fire scowls
When I politely point out –
I know where they bought their names from.
And the men are even worse,
Phosphorus pretenders with as much
Sparkle as flat cola.
They talk shit without value; it festers
Leaking from their mouths
Like processed cheese oozing from a burger.
And just how do they imagine the working people
Their dedication to cool evicts,
Bare strung wailers in the humility of night?
Or the actuality of bankrupt teeth
Chattering sharp on heartless late shifts.
As I climb the jacket of a skyscraper –
Numbed by the thin embrace of
A polystyrene coffee morning,
I laugh at just how tired the life they desire is.
© Sean L Macro 2013
Todays featured poem is by Sean L Macro, and comes from his debut collection “Happy Hour At The Misery Bar”, which is also our latest publication. We thought we’d share this one with you as a taster of the book itself, which we would very much like if you picked up a copy of. A cynical, satirical look at the nightlife and it’s inhabitants that many people will be aware of if they have ever walked through any one of our cities at night, this piece has more than an element of Bukowski about it.
If you want to see more of the talent of this up-and-coming young writer, then go grab yourself a copy of “Happy Hour At The Misery Bar” for either your bookshelf or kindle. You won’t be sorry.
Paperback version (£4.99): Lulu.com