Underneath the railway bridge,
Covered with multi-coloured tags,
(the pseudonyms of anarchic artists)
Between the bottles, the cans and bare patches of dirt,
Lives another sort of debris,
That live only for their hole.

Signposts point to the railway tracks,
Motorways choke the wilderness with carbon monoxide,
And in the cities: MSG cafes crowd streets,
The sewers are inverted,
The human race misguided,
We only listen to our vanities.

It's a nice day, picnics in the park,
Homemade lunches with friends in the sun,
Escapism from reality,
Pause for thoughts and contemplations,
Free from trials and tribulations,
Ignorance, our greatest of virtues,
Out of sight equals out of mind.

Watch them copulate on sweaty dance-floors,
Like cattle herded, there is no dignity in their revelry,
I view from outside the mirror,
Intoxicating myself to dull the pain,
Perhaps I am the debris, not them?
Because I only live to fill my hole.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...