A Song For The City: A Poem of Dubious Magnitude 

by David V.M. 

  If I was a sculptor, but then again, no
Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show
I know it's not much but it's the best I can do
My gift is my song and this one's for you.

-Your Song, Elton John (emphasis mine, as always) 

Prelude 

never forget how incredibly flawed I am

Part One : Early Dawn 

Colours have not orgasmed yet

I am awake yet my denizens are not

there is quiet comfort in knowing that

I am not the sum of my parts

I am the city

I am me

I can feel sinew and limb stretch and tighten

I can feel things turn taut

I can feel sleep shaken off like old dew

There is no dew

The city sleeps

I sleep

But some of my parts do not

And you can't blame them for I must be an interesting place to inhabit

I am so lonely and it is all I know

If you don't count the briefest flashes of the numinous

That I have been gifted with

A wild beauty this city can never have

Part Two: Morning 

I feel vigour I cannot understand

I do things I usually do not do

There is strange magic in the air

And part of me is poised and eager to break it

I am excited

I am a city alight

I am livid with joy

Cars careen through my streets

And I love them for it

There is alien joy here

Alien joy I do not deserve

Every exultation only digs further into  the pit

I can see this

I can ignore it

I do ignore it

Part Three: Noontime 

They say dreams dreamed at noon always come true

The city always dreams 

Part Four: Evening 

I want to believe my joy was pulled out of me like a plug

It wasn't

There was a build

I should have anticipated this

The city is searing now

Neon is poised and heated and ready to strike 

Climate is nothing 

My innards are my electricity and it is only now that the heat has been turned up

I'm ready for the oven 

Part Four: Night 

The oven burns everything other than me 

I am a new city 

Pink lights shatter the oily darkness of the night 

Strange wisps of smoke are all I can see

I am trying desperately to forget the morning 

And I am looking desperately for morning again. 

Fucking morning again. 

Exit Music 

tomorrow never comes 

Finis 

NOTE: Longer than usual, I know. And I have legit no idea who reads this book so however you've stumbled upon this poem, I hope it made you feel something. Because in the end, feelings tell you everything. They just might be all there is.