Neighbourhood.
I
live at the bottom of a hill
Appropriately,
all potential gone,
Amid
the dregs, the excuses for lives
That
chatter on and on and on
As
if there was something we aspired to
That
wasn’t another days drink and blue smoke,
As
if talking made some sort of hope
Sparkle
and dance, frighten away the truth
Of
our captivity, our dishonesty.
So,
giving and receiving of stolen kisses
Is
forbidden here, they can’t be counted
And
might prove addictive, distracting us
From
the right brand of tracksuits, trainers, phones.
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