Liam Rector

This City

This apartment with no furniture,
where no one puts anything up,
where everyone schemes to get out.
This mess, to the right and the left of me,
that equation of garbage wherein matter moves its way,
the magazine sector in glanced-at demise.
This price, and that mind,
and nothing to say but 'violent.'
Nothing but violence in the expensive mind.
Moving from the window towards morning.
These characters at the bottom,
so generous and pathetic.
Those abstract things at the top,
so mean, precise and arresting.
That god-abandoned theatre
...