that foul odour is there again
I cannot concentrate
every day
same story
of your dinner
and my suffering
imitation of oddities
of this place in the morning
it wouldn’t be that bad
if everyone just
go about their own business
in complete silence
or in the sheer privacy of their apartments
without letting off steam
through the balconies
and that adrenaline rush
it makes me
reveal the secret
of their dingy lives
I never wanted anything to do with it
maybe only
for the sake of variety
describe this abode of holes
where the wind blows through it like on a tugboat
too slow for the speed of sound
reverberating here like the beat of a broken hi-hat
*
October 2022
***
Thank you for reading!
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
Where the wild roses grow full of words...
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Comments (1)
modern living = modern problems. "where the wind blows through it like on a tugboat" seem to be the way of the cities of now. The sadness hangs in tendrils from your work like a literary spanish moss.