Nothin out here

Aboriginal apparitions with
an inch or two of midriff
In the shallows of winter
Before everything drowns in it.

One car per hour out here
Distant city light spilling up
And pillowing over stars
in a salacious suffocation.

Look at this damned moon.
Cobweb caught, or perhaps
beached and distraught
margarita in hand, salted
as tortillas or seas,
it says
"I wouldn't have risen from sheets
with bloodshot eyes
to swiss cheese skies
but the night called and I showed
up for your light, your night"

How to remain cheerful
in that city.
Where the trees
are imprisoned
and you
in your nine to five beehive
You must know
there is life outside of concrete.

Reviews

[Pete]

Swiss cheese skies. The trees are imprisoned. in your nine to five beehive - I like this.

[. serah .]

-- stunning poetry... -- you bring out the brutal character of urban life with poetic precision...