unreal city

January 7, 2012

Unreal City

for W. B. Yeats

technicalities of the word City

the bright red devil

soldiers, freaks

and all in between

 

architecture spills like scattered pebbles

homes built for heroes

concrete monoliths

Georgian terraces

and a great ocean liner

beached on the shoreline

great green domes

steps bowed from years of feet

south coast sprawl

and we are in a wind tunnel

you and I

aerodynamics found wanting

and duck into the slipstream

 

teapots dot the horizon

descending weather ball silenced

follies and fragments

the machinery of whim

 

hunched round the back of shops

I see the future in Orange Row

someone elses hands grow liver spots

in neon light

homeless starlings circle uncertainly

echoing cell formation in a futile dance

a sea voyage on wheels

another gust

and 40 pence postcards spin with the leaves

dreams of reformed piers

and dolphins that never were

 

the seafront is littered with sequels

nightclubs reshuffle in endless repeat

the concorde is full of fish

whilst a lift to nowhere stands forlorn

projects shudder to a halt on the front pages

circling like merry go round

with a Möbius strip

of barrel organ

these are the satisfied horses

 

one February day

the ghost train caught fire

sharing a bottle of wine

on seafront

it was bonfire night

children huddled

in hats and scarves

padded the shingles for a better view

all that was missing was the sparklers

 

seagulls wake with the dawn

the mournful peep of the young

searching for the red button

the food dispenser

and the full throated

call to the sky

of their elders

seagulls live a long time

 

and in answering chorus

from hotels and apartment lofts

windows slam shut

lovers turn and spoon

and visiting businessmen writhe

wrap pillows futilely round heads

these are not the sounds of the city

 

the end of the line

bill boards shriek improbable phrases

dawn breaks

a morning stroll

half blind

the viaduct in snow

that melts within minutes of settling

forking paths

 

this is not the city of legends

of angels

the windy city

the streets are not paved in gold

but chewing gum

and warnings not to drop chewing gum

Siamese twins

at the hip

 

there’s a shark in the water

the beaches are closing

candy floss melts on the stick

at the Marina

the floating Chinese restaurant breaks free

nose to the east

a bear gets loose on west street

and hundreds of panicking clubbers

snap the glowing cones

as oceana sinks

gently

into the ground

the main event

the pavilion shudders

as blood drips from the palms

of the statue of George IV

books pop into existence

a hundred a minute

on the first floor of the Jubilee library

screaming librarians

running out of places to put them

the model shrimp

having devoured the whelk stall

storms the fishing museum

for fresh meat

in cafes

croissants drop to the ground

full English breakfast abandoned

with sausage still pinioned

and egg running everywhere

the honey club?

a mass of swarming bees

spelling out directions

by dancing to funky house

the North Laine is filled with electricians

grocers, cobblers, stationers, ironmongers

running over boutiques and juice bars

whilst crystals and dream catchers heap up on the street corner

students start using the word “real”

to describe actual real things

there is a walrus in regency square

although no-one really knows why

the open market is closed

despite the name

swimmers in the prince regents

all get cramp at the same time

a thousand screaming crows

descend on the bird whistle man

who falls skeletal to the ground

leaving jaunty cap and sign

the zombie walk gets attacked

by actual unimpressed zombies

with no known survivors

the falmer stadium

snaps shut

trapping the audience

who are forced to watch

perpetual re-runs

of that Crystal Palace game in ‘86

but nobody really notices

on the beach

photographers run for tripods

and external flash

as the great wave hits

and loll in the undertow

one last great capture

buskers hit one final saxophone solo

which might never end

until dissolved

by precisely aimed lightning

 

Meanwhile,

Straight from Southhampton

The Argus leads on

“Is this Sussex’s most expensive guinea pig?”

Whilst Adam Trimingham

Bemoans the rocketing price

Egg and chips will set you back these days

Unimpressed residents

Brush flecks of ash from their fountain pens

And ponder on the letters page

About how this will affect the weekly bin collection

 

Amidst the remains of the city

As survivors wait for buses that will never arrive

Or reconsider that move back to London

There comes a man

As it was written

His clothes bedecked with flames

With a music only he can hear

Dancing whilst Hove burns

Dancing, dancing, dancing,

Dancing like there’s no tomorrow

Dancing like there’s no yesterday

Each step honed from hundreds of rehearsals

Resplendent in flaming suit

Amidst the smoking ruins

He dances on

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2 Responses to “unreal city”

  1. kate said

    Love this. Think its my favourite of yours so far 🙂

  2. Lou said

    this poem totally kicks arse! I love it! I wish there was no time limit at Hammer&Tongue … or maybe you can be a rebel (again) and go over time …

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