The Tracks – Wingless Dreamer

My poem The Tracks can be found in this collection.

Some nights are too cold for stilettos

One platform and icy concrete

No place here to drink white coffee

Two young girls on metal benches

Sit and watch their make-up smudging

Sharing fags and passing lighters

Hair back-brushed to reach the sky

And fishnets tearing cautiously

Around their scabbing, bloody knees.

Girls dressed up and looking pretty

High-heeled boots and lip-gloss

Sticky to the touch

From magazines where centrefolds

Hide teenage dreams

Of being oh so pretty, oh so sexy, oh

At age thirteen.

Girls who know a touch they shouldn’t

Girls with lips stitched under lipstick

Girls who hate and judge each other

Girls who wish it started different.

Watch the lights now flashing red,

The whiny sound of loud alarm

The train is speeding up ahead,

But there’s no screech of brakes

Instead, the girls are waiting on the tracks,

Grasping tightly clammy hands,

Prepared to cause a small disruption

Garbled overhead announcements.

Tutting customers impatient

Waiting for the cleaning up of

Scummy skin and toxic waste

Will undoubtedly think them selfish.

From Balconies

Buy a copy of ‘To the Newspaper Again’. It contains my poem ‘From Balconies’ which goes like this:

While bodies still lie stiff in morgues,

And cannot yet be burned for change,

Their ash cannot blow onto tree roots

Cannot feed a dawning age,

But people will get restless

And they’ll sing

From balconies

While governments still hide the facts

With masturbatory façade

Of staying strong and saving face,

With cries of truth and protest barred,

The people will get restless

And they’ll sing

From balconies,

And here,

With empty, barren shelves,

And mugs of English breakfast tea,

And vacant office carparks left

To our optional quarantine,

Our isolation leads to love

And building up communities

And anger gets directed at

Authorities with hands unclean,

When clapping means far less to us

Than taxes spent responsibly,

And we have time to strike and fight,

For those who suffer mercilessly

And all of them will realise

These dead will not be burned unseen

‘Cause people will get restless.

Yes, us people will get restless

They can fight, kill and arrest us

But we’ll scream

From balconies.

  • Cathleen Davies

http://www.poetschoices.com/index.html

Arthur Rimbaud in New York by Cathleen Davies

My story Arthur Rimbaud in New York is out.

literally stories

‘Creep, my love, why don’t you photograph me?’

Creep took many photos. Creep had seen a lot of bodies. They were always scarred and twisted because all bodies, excepting those of new-born babies, are scarred and twisted. His models were dirty. Creep liked bohemian grit, the real, as he called it. He liked the street-rats best. He savoured dirt.

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