The Sky, The Sky

I looked for the sky this morning,

I threw my head towards it,

But I couldn’t see it,

It was blocked,

Obstructed with

cement and bricks

narrow and restricted

to a tiny strip

the sky,

the size of a bow tie,

tightly knotted around a

city banker’s neck,

as he drinks Prosecc.


Where is it?

Where is the sky?

I see only cranes,

Swaying arms,

holding lighters

To the music of Crashing and Upheaval.

It was then that I noticed,

A man with

a protruding,

red, hairy stomach,

popping the buttons

of his stained white shirt,

and fraying his blue and white rosette.

He was leaning out of an enormous window,

of a dark immaculate flat,

dangling his hat,

He was dribbling and loud,

But shouted clear and proud,

‘The Sky, The Sky

Anyone to buy?

Anyone to buy the sky?’