Late spring
and evenings
stretch thin fingers
over the sprawl.
Smoke from oil drum fires
hangs in the air.
Cars nose home
towards suburban bliss
and the first lamps are lit
on the stretch
from Lawrence Hill to Clarence Road.
Vortex headlights whirl
and the Easton roundabout
slips into the sixth dimension,
where Doc-shod greebos
battle jug-faced elves
as Sta-Prest teen-priests look on sullenly,
brick-handed for insurance.
The scene is near-pastoral.
Upon Barrow Road,
past the flickering high-rise golems,
three amateur-hour boot boys,
all fake swagger and foul tongues,
make a reconnaissance of the wreckage:
post-war bombsite:
a sea of bricks and shattered roof tiles;
skeletal remains of rusted metal;
empty paint pots,
long lost tyres;
dog-shit and porn:
stirred by time into a wild,
pungent stew.
This is living.
Breathe it in.
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