In Sky City, I have been
in every city anyone has seen.
From Argentina to Mexico, to Alaska brushing Russia;
Mongolia down to China; across the Indies into Australasia,
Throughout the world; in each in all,
and all identical.
No matter how much culture
had once existed there,
it’s the same old dear old tear
dripping into the same old beer.
The same old buildings; the exact same stores and
The exact same cars.
They're all occupied,
by exact same people in the exact same suits.
Like The Blob across the world, concrete poured on tradition,
With culture suffocated; the past berated.
Everything so big,
you're small by comparison.
And all so cheap,
you're expensive to get there.
And with their bigger mix of race
than anywhere else, I face
more racist words in these dirty streets
than I would right here,
than I would in the place where no-one greets
and no one has the time to meet.
I look up at the sky, at the tallest scraper,
that is, the Sky Tower;
The higher power
The one that semi-eclipses the sun
shining beside like a faithful bride,
working together to produce a shadow
that turns me into an ant
And while we can't stop buying,
It's devouring our image without even trying.
I wonder if the executives
in their pyramids can see me,
or what they can see, if they can not.
To him, or her, but usually him,
this place must seem beautiful,
glorious and irresistible.
From that perspective,
it could be admired to the heart,
like a work of art,
like a thousand and onebrilliantly crafted spikes
of all shapes and sizes,
reaching up to heaven itself, stealing all its prizes.
The higher you are; the closer you are
The closer to God you are,
although I don’t know what it is like
to work a job at that height,
but it must be something like heaven.
Far above your 7-Eleven
The towers, reflective; multiplying
their own greatness at every angle.
Crucifying, never dying
It is good for the mind
of the businessman,
like a strut through one of those glass mazes,
not caring if you are lost, when
your slick, attractive, egyptian cotton,
french seam, Mother-of-Pearl sin
is staring back at you with a proud, accomplished grin.
Let the alcoholism begin.
I wonder if those suits up there
know what life is like down here
In these ciggy butt ridden streets
when with the dark, none is seen,
but the lightscommanding their attention.
Stretching our rights
too far to mention.
They say to have your “head in the clouds”
is to be unable to concentrate,
full of distraction and disorientation.
It's to be in such a state.
What if your head is literally in the clouds,
or even approaching it?
Could you possibly fathom the sights; the smell;
the unbearable sounds that never ever end,
the earache that will never mend,
forcing your ears to become callous and dim,
like a stubborn, teenage roommate?
What is it like up there, and could you survive
as long if you lived down here?
I’ve spoken to foreigners of where they stand
in my country, New Zealand.
I recommend to them
the beaches; the forests; the world famous ice-cream.
But I never bother to recommend,
a visit to Sky City.
© Copyright 2016 DDWingate. All rights reserved.
Poem / Poetry
Book / Mystery and Crime
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