Day Two Hundred and Seventy Two: Instant Poetry 5

In my creative writing class yesterday we did some automatic writing. An interesting exercise, which yielded something that demands more work. More editing. Refining. The basis of a good story, perhaps.

This was written using the same technique. It’s really raw, but screw it. It’s here.

Path - AS SEEN IN QUMUINCATE

Still Life Night Light

Night falls with the flick of a switch,
the streets surrender their worth
to a thousand yellow lamps
distorting and distracting
the original concrete view.

It is a watercolour hue.
It is the colour that emerges
when you smudge everything together
on the easel.

And the rain just makes it worse.
It violently robs the pavements
of any good intentions,
murdering all colour and gaiety on site.

Nothing interesting happens under these lights.
Cast your mind back awhile to old film and prints
preserved in sepia tone;
echoes of which can be found in our road’s tomes.

The sodium vapour engulfs street scenes
in a light that’s cold and old
it is like the dullest film,
where the streets are paved
with a rotten colour of gold.

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