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I look at the ceiling
the blank, blank ceiling
and the blemish-less, soulless
angel white walls
loneliness my paramour
prostituting my fingers.

Black, muscular bodies
dripping with the sweat
of construction bricks
torsos barely contained
in tattering loincloths
did they feed each other?

Or was it a place to
make out consenting
or seduce or gang-rape
some starving servant-maid?

There clearly is sweat
in the congealed cement,
spittle, semen perhaps,
blood too, rich red blood,
either fallen or murdered;
concrete needs its sacrifice.

It never is an anodyne,
colourless, antiseptic
suburban flat;
listen to the walls,
for there is always
a conversation to be had.

Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology, ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.


very strong, raamesh, plenty of angst and observation here. xoxooxox
Ozymandias said…
Thank you again so much, Laura!