Mantra

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Villanelle in iambic pentameter.

After nearly three years, the somewhat contrived artistic, liberal veneer of Brighton is wearing thin and I am starting to encounter the same fakes, pigs and profiteers that I thought I had escaped.

Submitted: April 06, 2011

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Submitted: April 06, 2011

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There's something off about this artists' town;

bohemia too practiced and pristine.

But hey- don't let the bastards get you down.


Cosmopoliticians thick on the ground,

regurgitated insight splitting spleens.

There's something off about this artists' town.


They all still taste like pennies and like pounds;

the poor are still poor, the rich still obscene.

But hey- don't let the bastards get you down.


At desks, in staff rooms, poets sweat and frown,

and feed their lives into the old machine;

there's something off about this artists' town.


Romantics watch their secret gardens drown

to suit shareholders' self-loving wet dreams.

But hey- don't let the bastards get you down.


The banker's champagne belly laughs resound

through the deserted university.

There's something off about this artists' town,

But hey- don't let the bastards get you down.


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