05 February 2013

evocation of oxford

my first creative writing piece in its most recent form.


A bowler-capped and portly gentleman
balances on his bicycle,
looking as though each revolution
gives him the satisfaction of saving the world.
The oldest places sit, fat with age and decoration –
buildings where one must be big in order to fit through the door.
The sour-bread smell of spilled ale and potatoes
seeps out of crookedly stacked walls along with
piano and Jack Johnson’s guitar.
Academics tumble together into steaming heaps
and gorge themselves on collective knowledge.
The timid can only hide
if they walk as if they know where they’re going.
Words become cheap from their sheer mass.
The piles grow so high that even valuable work
is swept into potholes lining the streets
tumbling into the underground maze.
In a room of mouths spewing an r-less dialectic,
heart echoes off the walls in a harsh curve
and give you away in the clamor of other voices.

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