The Darks of the City Lie Amongst Hearts of Coal

[cottonwool_monkey]

As said on t'other forum, this is really more of an idle story than a poem, and I’ll probably scrap the last verse. Or the whole thing. But what do you think anyway? I’m still a bit dulled and misdirected at the minute (and annoyed, after losing almost everything I wrote in the last year with a particularly vicious virus) so in all likelihood it’s beyond shit, sorry.



The Darks of the City Lie Amongst Hearts of Coal


There’s a shadow, fluttering, at the corner of the street,
Writhing, in it’s death throes, at the fallen angel’s feet,
Her worn down heel grinds fag ash into it’s gaping wounds
As she tries to sell her soul to keep from defiling that too.

The pavement, desperate, clings to her, as she heads to her next client,
But a little trip can’t stop her now, her feet pound on, defiant
Up stony stairs, uneven, to the tip of hearth and home,
Where souls stagnate in misery and fear of being alone.

She breathes in, deep, to stop the holes addiction carves without,
And wishes, again, cosmetics could conceal shame and doubt,
But misery and company are much one and the same,
And a job’s a job in any world as long as you get paid.

But she checks herself, and leaves it on the right side of the door
So it knows no more than vagaries on the true meaning of “whore”
And she never has to join the hoards of hardened, leather girls
Who lost their old selves, piece by piece, in cruel and callous worlds.

Collected on the way out, she regains her composure,
And spends her winnings how she will, (less taxman disclosure)
Among the city girls, in clubs, just as polished, plucked and preened,
Who sell their femininity to gain career dreams.

Life is life, and nobody can call her any less
For living hers more blatant or precarious than the rest,
Who never let a moral slip or scorned a deadly sin
In order to survive the noise of time ticking within?

So live your life and make your way by any route you will,
Ideals and idylls die by day and each soul must foot it’s bill,
There are worse devils down at heel, where shadows deepen yet,
The city’s darkness waits, silent, and ready to collect.
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Dance as if you're going to die tomorrow

[al]

Near perfect modern poetry, in my humble opinion. There's very little I would change with that Harriet and it would be beautiful if it weren't so harrowing. It's the first piece of poetry I have ever read on the forum. Lovely.
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'I mean, I could easily write something catchy and have it all over the radio like, you know, Razorlight, but that's not what I'm about. I'm not here just to sell a certain quota of records. I do music to feel alive, that's all.'

[The Fortune Teller]

She is one of the finest few to ever share such talent.
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