Elizabeth Currie

Writer, Artist, Photographer

Writing — Poetry

The City

The City with no pity,
hot and hard and thirsty
with multi-million dollar dreams,
and cheap illusions and dirty schemes;
a million screens that flicker the news
of money’s views a world away, 
no time disturbs this day,
for the world never stops turning 
on a yen, or a pound or a dirty dime,
no thoughts or hopes sublime
disturb the moment’s fixation on the moment
when money breeds money, 
a virus in a chain.

Verdant hues of figures that flash before
an endless screen of bonds and cash;
wealth that never knew a human need,
a dream, a scream of unreality,
borne in a heart of greed.

 

It’s the Real World I hear you say -
hard as a hungry whore;
desire deeper than lust -
a need, a must to win
and failure the only sin.
The soul’s reflection in the gleam
of a limousine; an air, 
a bold presumptive stare
with the face of wealth
and a heart of stealth;
ambition with love in chains,
that spares no pains for those daily gains,
for those stocks and shares
and gaudy market wares;
a heaven and hell that turns
on a sell; the tolling knell
of a passing day a world away
the City, with no pity.