Friday, 12 February 2010
Insect songs beat against the tar-black night
chiming in chirrups, reptilian tongues.
He softly sobs - white sea-dust fills his lungs,
while behind him, those cardboard hills glow bright.
His plastic dreams scale the sidewalk’s scarred skin
impressed with the same grit as dispelled gum.
The shadows are snagged by the charring sun,
their characterless egos long hidden.
With day’s decay comes sharp chemical light.
He greets it, this time, with naked back turned -
Using all his effort to muster pure spite.
Even when the phosphorus leaves him burned,
He withstands averting his rigid sight,
With nothing ahead, there’s nothing to fight.