secret desires of cities come alive
in the sprawling brawl of surviving
Taking the guise of colour and sound,
they make their way around the
deserted streets: streets deserted
only of day-people. The Night-people
take their places with strange, unreal,
speaking only in riddles and whispers of
their dreams and
When I grow up I want to be
An urn on someone’s mantelpiece.
And when they speak, they speak in
Silence to silent hums and vibrations,
invisible waves and radiation, beaming
out meditations to distant beings,
on square extremities of their beings,
like psychic extraterrestrial beings.
Where R U?
Lit-up traffic Lights the way
to the heart of the Night, which beats
rhythmic red, green, and amber,
and pulsing through these arterial streets
comes music, throbbing to be released
through heavy doors.
The night-people gather together
dum dum dum dum dum…
to have a drink or two or three and see
the sights: neon sounds
and penetrating lights,
sweat and sex and sex and sweat,
a wet symphony of secret desires
in city nights
awash in colour and sound.
Twit tweet twoo.
And just as that burning eye
lifts its lid over the sky to see
the buried night-people, forgotten,
pretending to be remembered
by the grave-markers that are
echoes of ecstasy
from cracks between curtains,
the calls that sounded the death of the city,
“the City is dead; long live the City,”
come in affirmative delight.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Profile: Jamie Mckinlay