The Castle

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The walls cry here, 
brown 
      and beige 
                    or grey, 
brick stained by the tears 
of neglect and waste. 
A kip of a place forgotten by power 
and shunned by law. 

Wardrobes hang 
      from window ledges airing in the       
                       passing city breeze,
            fuelled by turbines 
                  and truck exhausts and disease.

and the stink of the brewery 
             adds its malty piece.

Doors, inset offer the only relief 
from sameness 
in a bland landscape of indifference 
where even a small difference 
         can set you apart. 
               Graffiti is the only neutral art

And these walls 
are a gallery for that trade, 
every slogan ever spoken in haste 
or hate decorate the walls 
and shared halls. 
Stairways 
          to dank
                 darkness 
                      and homes

The noise of voices 
loud and tormented
            mother calls 
in crude summon to a brood who      
       wouldn’t listen 
and don’t come.

Children’s mouths full of muck 
         and mire, 
tongues on fire with hate and spite.
Urging fights
         where first blood drawn 
decides whose side your on 
        no loyalty to losers. 

Words flow twisted from slovens
         tongues 
to the ears of bums 
too fucked by booze 
        and drugs 
for work. 
                    And to far beyond pain
             to give a damn
for bellies and eyes swollen with  

               hunger.

Harsh voices denying the unfairness. 
Pretending at gilded palaces
and laid out grounds 

around the castellation  
of degradation. 
A run down slum
          but still it’s home 
                              for some.

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

2 thoughts on “The Castle

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