You think you know but you don’t ,

You don’t see what’s behind the concrete ,

The scared alcoholic afraid to come out of his room

The Huntington’s man’s daughter who wants to kill her father because she’s got the disease as well or

The man who runs disappearing into his room locking himself in with his fist so far up his ass all you see is his arm and you try and plead calmness in the midst of rage and fury

This is a hard poem , a dirty poem , a poem of old people , and rooms not seen or read

Its like the city is a restaurant night of pure cuisine decadence , a food and booze extravaganza

And you hear the music thumping away , and the faces all shiny with light, pulsating with the energy of the universe

And the bookshop cool , and the souvlaki cool along with Japanese cool and the Night Cat cool is packed with the funk of souls and

Up the road, up the other end, up near the housing commission flats, up near the old, now new Rob Roy, is the world where the ghosts haunt the strips unable to find their way home.

Its there behind the veil of hip and these happy funksters are out of towners anyway so who cares

Because their own reality is stuck in the suburbia of Kingswood country and their suffering is the suffering of boredom

In the end I don’t care and nor should you because a city is not just lights, pretty faces, with pretty buildings , a city is a multilayered cake teeming with the history of soul.