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Ben River

Alone near the water, lying face down among the reeds,
laying waste on the shore, beneath the rails and concrete maps.

Above the stolen lampshades hanging from the borrowed glow
the bowels of the motorcades drift between white lines.
In this place, a dust ring where many lights have now found home in the dusk.

I’m a scrawling Neanderthal guilty of being born in the west,
guilty of throwing myself to the lions while watching a tempest brew in oblivion.
I’m guilty with this lust fiend mirror, this comfort, this moon, this self, this meaning.

Given it all and stored on my sleeve,
hanging on a thread, dancing in the wind.
Lest I forget, the paving of our grass,
the civilisation built on the sand and my guilty fingertips with reality at beckon call.

Plumes of cotton were rising above the soaking streets and there they were.
Strangers in the mist walking under beat of sun.