Is it better to try and remember?

This town looks empty at night.
The lonesome streetcar
should put on its lights.
But for some reason
This town is a treason
Against thoughts
And feeling alright.

Your efforts are worthless
In the morning.
My head is just torn at the seems.
Is it better
To try and remember?

Dreams out yonder, beyond the curtains
That keep out the cold,
And lock in the worrying.
No one glares no more.
No one stares no more.
My poor efforts end here for certain.

Your ideas are ignorant in the morning.
I’m feeling the brunt of confrontation.
Is patience
Another word for complaisance?

Sydney

Sydney: a place that couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Please chew me up and spit me out into the isles of a 747 and take me away to another city.

A town where the sites lay buried behind overpriced outlets, and equally overpriced
food; unworthy in quality for even the most avid Smorgy’s patron. The stench of the harbour must by why everyone in this city walks around with their noses in the air, for it definitely can’t be the view of the monorail or bland Sydney skyline.

I tried to reach out to the homeless with an open hand, but was met with closed fists.

A sprawling, unplanned centre that drags in the most vile of biomasses left me uneasy,
uncomfortable and a little bit queasy. Maybe I’m wrong and it was me all along. Sydney is perfect and I’m the one whose perspective has been tainted by the beautiful mistress that is Melbourne.

First published in Rabelais.