Unreal City

Unreal City

I.

Through half-concealed windows

They climb,

And stumble into unfurnished rooms.

Do you have a problem with emptiness?

This world is scant,

And can control itself.

And walking among the dead is our hobby

And difficult sleeps.

We think of the swift movements

Which slowly deface you.

But perhaps I am falling

Slowly,

And move throughout the walls

Choking on corpses.

II.

I wander through the thinking room,

And stare at a lone signature.

Hands were told to forge it

But,

You can only write your name.

You will never understand his movements:

Masochistically draining blood from his soul,

And spreading it hopelessly on the canvas.

III.

She said her line in complete understanding

While his hands recreated the world

He thought he knew already.

But why have they come here?

Why have I come here?

What lies before our mouldered eyes are projections.

IV.

I looked into blue bowls

And lost myself.

Fragments created shapes

Where bronze men bang against walls,

Stiff from manipulation.

We find ourselves staring at grey blurs,

Desperate to seek discernable shapes.

These came at noon

And brought death.

V.

‘I just thought I could gain what I lost.’

VI.

‘Do you think business men are really like that?

People in incredibly small suits,

With bashed heads?’

No one ever died.

VII.

Middle class embassy:

‘Temple, temple!’ they shout,

Scatter their flesh,

Bow before the altar,

And reveal the almighty pig.

VIII.

During a surreal chapter

I extinguished my mind

Under the bridge.

No one followed suit,

So I wiped the floors

With their dirty rags.

It became grotesquely clean.

When Wordsworth came to me

Lain upon a table,

He was unable to close his eyes.

He turned to me

And said,

‘You’ve stepped beyond the line

And now you must forget reality’.

..........................................................

I wrote this poem during a particularly surreal weekend in London. It was my AS Level English class's weekend trip. A weekend of theatre, poetry writing past midnight, wine, talking to teachers about human connection while drunk on wine, sneaking out of my hotel room after 2 am and ending up laying in the grass in front of the Natural History Museum, museums and the forever insistent voice of a teacher repeating, "None of this is real! London's a stage." By the end of the weekend I believed him, and returning to Bristol on the coach was one of the worst crash's I've experienced.