The Big C. A poem by David Morris

The drunks were swelling
sudden city spaces,
nodding to all in the fold.
The sound of piss
travelling that bit further.

A winter´s baton to spring:
calendar circles
lapped and canted.
Weekends slashed;
Tuesday´s shine.

Street eyes had stopped giving.
Twos frowning at fours.
Short shrift to conspiracy benches.
Boxed in by good behaviour
the days so well-behaved.

Techno pants had tightened;
stomach growling at
new-found chambers.
For floor and bass
aisles and baskets.

Balconies though. And birds you
hadn’t known at supper.
House, clapping, singing in the south:
each a brick putting
building over builder.


Hello, my name is David Morris, from Kilkenny, living and working in Berlin.

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