Topic: Descriptive
(1990. Whilst walking hungover? along St.Kilda Road at 9 am.)
The street gleams with its dirty coat of dust
and rubbish and exhaust fumes, like a fat
and sweaty bloke walking too fast. My
stomach turns as though to be sick: a moment
that passes swiftly, leaving me, trembling
and not quite sure of where I am ––– the street.
The Street! In all its grubby, greasy
glory...
Am I on my way to work?
I
know again where iIam and why, why time
after time I re-live this same routine
as though trapped in some demented Groundhog
Day or X-File episode ––– Not even
Dr. Who's timeloops recursively compare
to this disasterous farce which some would
have me believe is Life! Daily Life!
[whispered] ...working life...
This Is No Life!
(did someone say, "tell it to your wife?")
I trip on a
piece of tar warped by the roots of some
ancient elm dying from too much fuss, too much
attention from hoards of elm leaf bettles.
This street, its path, the cars, the fences, all
herd me along the ––– street... this grey, abysmal
expanse that brings me together, day
by day, with a desk I care little for.
Updated: Monday, 22 February 2016 8:52 AM CET
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