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| Robert Maddox-Harle |
Deserted City
Eerily empty, the city at five am
a “still life” of despair,
the edge of a desperate cold mirage
suspended, like purgatory
between false-dawn and dawn.
Greys change to black
then back to grey-yellow,
pushed downwards by the damp draught,
drawn past drab facades
and steely-mirror-glass
reflecting itself - reflecting itself
in the sickly yellow lighting.
The scent of the underground
warm metallic, dusty
stale electric,
rises from the gutter grates
testing the memories of tramps,
those who rode the rail-road
in suits of silk
and careless confidence,
from warm home
to office obsession and back again,
and then - redundancy.
A faint hum, hum, hum
permeates the sacred silence
mysterious and alien
not wholly human,
not merely machine,
the ghost of the city moans,
a disembodied chant
surrounds the monuments,
marvels of human madness.
Silent street sweepers,
caretakers of this shadow world
sweep slowly, the sins
from last night's sacrifice,
sacrifices to love
to lust and longing.
Even the hard-core whores
desperate for a last trick,
leave this monstrous mausoleum
when the dawn reveals the morning sky.
A black stiletto heal, scarred
wrenched free in hustle
in bondage in a footpath crevice
remains as testimony.
A siren far across the city
screams,
slashing the silence,
in a second all is dead again.
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