I wrote this yesterday. Was standing in the KPC car park, looking out over
The sun was dipping to the west, unclear. I could look right into its golden disk, something inadvisable, I know. I found it odd. I found it interesting. A beauty round the setting that combined to move me to write this. A fairly impolite poem, I am afraid.
Not a Polite
I had never seen a smog,
now I recognise it nascent
in the hollowed hills my birth city,
Strange to see the sun so bright,
but dimly, like through a huge window-
stained glass dome overhead;
a hazy smoke always, twixt me ‘n sun
like wrap around dirty goggles, I’ve posed to wear
To feel sun rays so brightly false,
watery like to more temperate climes
that such a sun hunger to see in the depths of winter.
Greedy me, I’m overused, knowing only
not a pea soup haze, inedible stuff.
you’ve farted onto yourself.
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