Synaesthesia Magazine Cities - Page 89

work in progress

thousands of souls

meander along the street

(most, rushing)

looking to arrive


I’m walking among them.

small outstretched hands,

composed of China

and nicotine stains,

rub silk bibs,

leaving smears

of labor.

the wool of men

and cotton of dresses

torn from bodies

are discarded

by the window

by the bed.

the neighbor

is an old man

living in a city shack;

he likes to watch

young couples



the garden

is tender watered

by sweat

dripping from the windows.

sidewalks arch like spine

of a new born

citiesteen years spent building,

moulded by soft hands of ballots;

it is now a disgruntled coat -

an injured compass.

the beds are being bought.

some beds are being paid for.

most take time

and energy

like sex.

we pass by the young couple's

bedroom window

and the old man


we're talking

patterns and

walking circles.

everyone owes

everyone money

for owning a bed.

I don't owe anyone money

I don't own a bed.

Jeremiah Walton