Early hours

It's the early hours,
Of the Saturday morning,
The spillover from the Friday night you dreamed of since Monday 9am,
When the shackles locked on unhealed sores.

All revellers assemble to dance and drink the boss out of their skin,
To dissipate the corporate bleach from their valley blood,
To dream big dreams, for a while,
Of deliverance, emancipation,
Of being anyone else.

Boys flip somersaults along the tarmac stage
Girls are Doja Cat, exhibiting raw sass.
The taste of the street urchin sickly veneer coats the rancorous air,
A scratch and sniff to the show that makes you forget.

Cue Lights, and heels and music!
And lipstick gloss!
Bring your Shared hardships, ladies and germs.
Join us for tears in beers and brutal gossip.
It's a beautiful explosion, it's Shakespeare in real time.

Here be bare knuckle fights born of resent,
Blood drawn,smeared and frothing,
Ugly broken noses, catcalling women with hole smattered tights,
Long stoked scars that surface and spill over this rugged street

Here,
Where dreams wash down the gutter,
Gone
Then couples outdo the animals, giving Insta feral acts of dangerous lust





Poetry by 1LFD
Read 94 times
Written on 2022-02-20 at 16:37

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Line after excellent line. This is going to be fav. How do you do it?
2022-02-21


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
I loved how you describe this modern-day scene of ribaldry when the burden of toil is released for a while. Seems that times have not much changed since... erm... Dickens' time. Were he here I am sure he would think that he has seen it all before.
2022-02-20