I'm up, I'm up.
Jeez.
A cold splash of water,
a quick draw
and keys go jingle jangle in my hand.
sweaty palms in a cold air
an old smell
like brick and oil
in a part of town
urban
and free.
Rich youngsters pay out the
watch your sass
just to live with a bedroom covered in
naked beams
Industrial, they call it,
another kitsch motif
for the cloistered pall
of the wealthy
Me,
I can't afford not to spring
up from leaky squeaky springs
and rusted bedsheets
cold iron handrails
on a staircase to a dusty street
where it's just them, and me.
Go on, runt,
draw.
The angles of your face are pre-fab.
Mine are hand-sawn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem