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Array
(
[sid] => 175202
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The City
[time] => 2013-02-20 20:22:07
[hometext] => Prose poetry involving the city of my youth.
[bodytext] => The city can be a lonely place on Sundays. The never-ending sea of cars and trucks are missing from the metered lots. Many of the buildings and businesses are closed, their brick and mortar exteriors loom large and impenetrable alongside the empty streets. Perhaps the most telling signs of desolation is the absence of panhandlers from the cement islands and street corners, the folded signs they carry tucked away amidst their most treasured possessions.They have relocated to makeshift camps for the weekend, where emaciated faces peek out from dingy sleeping bags as they lie awake beneath the eaves of the train station; the blaring whistle of the train echoes their angst and discontent of lives spent eternally on the move.Those with homes have moved on to the decaying wooden frames of battered Victorian castles dispersed among the multitude of truck yards and government buildings; their sagging porches and eyeless windows create the illusion of faces contorted in pain.Children are kept inside out of fear and love, for the streets belong to immoral opportunities which must be kept at bay by imposing iron fences.These grating noises and gritty images are the backdrop of the place I call my home; the perpetual wailing of sirens is the lament of lifetimes spent within these city blocks.
[comments] => 2
[counter] => 128
[topic] => 31
[informant] => Dispersion
[notes] =>
[ihome] => 0
[alanguage] => english
[acomm] => 0
[haspoll] => 0
[pollID] => 0
[score] => 0
[ratings] => 0
[editpoem] => 1
[associated] =>
[topicname] => StoryPoetry
)
The City
Contributed by
Dispersion
on
Wednesday, 20th February 2013 @ 08:22:07 PM in AEST
Topic:
StoryPoetry
|
The city can be a lonely place on Sundays. The never-ending sea of cars and trucks are missing from the metered lots. Many of the buildings and businesses are closed, their brick and mortar exteriors loom large and impenetrable alongside the empty streets. Perhaps the most telling signs of desolation is the absence of panhandlers from the cement islands and street corners, the folded signs they carry tucked away amidst their most treasured possessions.They have relocated to makeshift camps for the weekend, where emaciated faces peek out from dingy sleeping bags as they lie awake beneath the eaves of the train station; the blaring whistle of the train echoes their angst and discontent of lives spent eternally on the move.Those with homes have moved on to the decaying wooden frames of battered Victorian castles dispersed among the multitude of truck yards and government buildings; their sagging porches and eyeless windows create the illusion of faces contorted in pain.Children are kept inside out of fear and love, for the streets belong to immoral opportunities which must be kept at bay by imposing iron fences.These grating noises and gritty images are the backdrop of the place I call my home; the perpetual wailing of sirens is the lament of lifetimes spent within these city blocks.
Copyright ©
Dispersion
... [
2013-02-20 20:22:07]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: The City
(User Rating: 1 )
by cathartic on
Wednesday, 20th February 2013 @ 10:17:54 PM AEST
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a Message)
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| oh my |
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Re: The City
(User Rating: 1 )
by colinb on
Friday, 22nd February 2013 @ 11:01:40 PM AEST
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a Message)
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| Very sad fact of alot of cities & small towns |
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