Poem: Fractured, Perhaps Dreamed

[bliumchik]

In the city it is always twilight
The shops closed, boarded up
It exists in roads and warrens
Where people you think you know
Have the wrong faces
And walk differently.

The traffic lights come to life
Like cobras, coiled
Like the magma beneath the
Pavement, too close to the surface
It is oppressively hot
Except beneath the streetlights
Where you may find ice.

The malls are well-lit
Full of consumers with bright blank eyes
Not really present – well,
Not really people.
The mannequins are – they cannot move, but their
Eyes dart from side to side sometimes
When you’re not looking
Longing
For that cashmere scarf
And a new red dress
And arms
And maybe freedom.

The graffiti flickers from
Wall to wall, there
One second, gone the next
Migrated to a distant alleyway
Performing evasive manoeuvres
Running away from:
Your gaze
Being pinned down and read (quantified)
Like this poem which was written
First on a narrow rose wall that
Only exists in an imaginary room
In (my head)
The melting pot.



There's a little rationale at Deviantart.