Words by Joshua Strauss
Art by Ruby Comte
We live at number twenty-two,
Behind a cluster
Of broken bricks
And marred consecrations
Of bereft memories.
A playground all concrete
That leaves a nagging itch on the skin.
It opens its arm in an embrace
With the warmth of family estranged;
Forgotten and always hated.
On the walk to number twenty-three
Stumble over the mismatched
Paved slabs and sprays of dirt.
A delta of concrete cracks
Pushing us away.
Remnants of civilisation,
Car batteries and spray paints
Gather in hushed testimony
And arrange themselves
In thoughtful prayer.
Through the windows of number twenty-four
Peer in the perverse.
Young man, old men remind us
They are not locked out
We are locked in.
River of mud
Bursting banks of the gutter
Estuaries storm drains
Paints a tactile border
That separates us and them.
By the porch of number twenty-five
Whispers of past habitation
Lie discarded by the door
Snapped in two
Nestled among the weeds.
The garden’s earthly tendrils
Of childhood nostalgia
And teenage ambition
Left ignored and untethered
Strangle solitary roses.
At the side of number twenty-six
Hear the devils rave.
Ice-cold melancholy
Amidst warm bellies
Of drunken fools.
From dark windows,
A snow-white euphoria
For a little roll of gold.
Wide eyes, wide eyes,
Please don’t look at me.
There are no walls at number twenty-seven.
Metropolitan playground,
Where scraps of paper amidst demolished brick,
Bedding, blessed and burnt,
Stain the floor like shit.
Beady eyes glass over,
All white, no pupil,
Stuck too far back
In the skull of someone who shouldn’t be here,
But has nowhere else to go.
The sign on the door of number twenty-eight
Flips one way with sunrise,
And the other as arch wanes.
Aroma of imported beans
Wafts through half-closed windows.
Flooded with customers all suited,
All ignoring the urban wasteland
Surrounding the place of their morning beverage.
Up-and-coming café:
Gentrified coffee for sale.
The plot of number twenty-nine
Holds no home.
Rather, it cultivates a beautiful garden
Of roses and cacti
For the pleasure of number thirty.
Stone white monolith,
A king of plastered modernity
Amidst peasantry
Of crumbling brick.
Please. Let us stay.
