Crowds by Rowan McCabe

Broken bits of glitter on the floor,
tiptoeing around
omnipresent white boxes,
hanging from grey towers,
surveying the ground.

Luminous jackets with
oversized heads,
wooden sticks
silver rings and blind eyes.

Windows of plastic statuettes
forever looking back in time.
Shuffling around I’m cattle
herded into another corner
of the everyday,
while it pushes too hard
against my face.

It’s the best money can buy.

Fingerless gloves sitting on corners
next to invisible
hopes of “not tonight”
not tonight

While all the time: ties
(nooses) buses and shines shoes,
tired handhelds going home:
“not tonight”
not tonight.


Want more? We recommend The Ugly Mermaid

Nah, time for Prose

Go back to Issue 2

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