Poetry

This City

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.

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