I don’t like Saturdays.
When the crowds push you further inside of yourself
Making you long for something you don’t really want.
When the stench of desperation outweighs other odours
Carried by staggering stag parties
Moving towards the windows
Leering at the leeching emptiness that waits for them inside.
When the night is red and raw
Like the burnt fingers of the first time smokers.
I wonder, if the drug is natural
Is their happiness natural too?
I begin to long for something I don’t really want.
When the orderly lines form on the street
Of young tourists patiently waiting to finally witness
This tacky commercialisation of sex.
(I wonder if this is better than the Virgin Marys that stand in Irish windows)
When I don’t know which version of home I prefer,
I find myself longing for something I don’t really want.
This city may be freedom
But I still feel trapped, a tame animal locked in a cage.
I am not a part of this life or this night.
So I wait for Sunday,
When I can start to love this city all over again.