Obvious rural melancholy sold by Turner, Elgar, Blake
pales into insignificance beside the cityscape.
People seen from buses, sat in the cruel, white light
of the late night launderette or the arcade's dangerous door.
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I really like this. The observation of the lives unfolding in quiet desperation and fear around us as the city breathes. The detached nature of the commentary, the picking out of the commonplace in it's uncommon detail, you have a poet's eye for the world around.