Flying out of Sydney

I wrote this while in Sydney.

I’m back
Back in this city,
This birthplace
This bruise upon my soul
Back where I grew up
This cage of concrete,
This hole.

Where beggars, like bottles
litter the street
Men broken and shattered
like glass at my feet
And everyone’s squeezed
Till like plasticine they,
Lose all of their colour,
Leaving nothing but grey
Where corporate junk-men
Dressed up in their suits
While the punks are dressed up
In their Doc Martin boots
And the speed gives them both
Dark rings under their eyes
As their nostrils are filled
With the dust of their lives,
I see building block buildings,
Stacked higher than high
And the skyscrapers scrape
At the dirty grey sky
And the trees grow confined
To their cages of steel,
While the people ignore
All they see and they feel.
And so, I breathe deep
Of the foetid grey air
And am grateful that I
No longer live there.

Chris Kneipp

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2 responses to “Flying out of Sydney

    • I guess it depends where you go. Growing up somewhere will tend to taint your impression of a place one way or another.

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