Bristol Central Library - a short poem

Bristol Central Library

The chair he sits in, like a burnished throne,

glows on the marbled fat librarian’s flesh.

Upstairs, through the door without,
insinuates the babbling of creche,
submerging the monomaniacs’ drone
and the profanities of louts.

The hipster who needs to blow his nose

snorts through all Eustachia his snot.

The paranoiac in his shell-suit seethes

and itches at a snow-capped scalpine spot

The sleeper, having woken, yawns and goes

through the circulating thieves.

Apollo’s been usurped. His temple’s now

a Pandemonium, or slough, or pond

where with spasms, signifying disease,

flail spiritual seekers in despond

in company with diverse clowns,

and harlequins, and chaps with fleas.