(for Ronald Ohlsen & Rense Sinkgraven, City Poets of Groningen)
I am this blue barge,
the pancake ship,
the casino of flashing neon.
I am the light in a fish’s eyes,
the icy herring down the throat.
I am the City Poet.
I am the unknown lanes we stalk along,
a red shirt,
the stripper of paint.
I am death waiting at the railway station,
a Duvel in the old buffet.
I am the City Poet.
I am a museum of children,
an Irish pub out of place,
the ancient bard etching odes.
I am the word stuck in your head,
the drugs from last night.
I am the City Poet.
I am the next call,
the starlings wheeling in the dusk,
the darkness she brought you.
I am the sober priest in the drunk’s tower,
the bus stop you kissed her at.
I am the City Poet.
I am a walking cinema,
the empty library,
the last one for the road.
I am the finger in her pants,
a frightening glance of yourself.
I am the City Poet.
I am this laughing church,
this gas factory,
the football game from hell.
I am a cracking goal,
the free man in a prison.
I am the City Poet.
I am a scream in a dull meeting,
the chairman of the bored,
the councillor for happiness.
I am a stinking canal,
the giggle in her blouse.
I am the City Poet.
I am a yellow train,
a flash across the countryside,
the bearer of state grants.
I am a brilliant dustman,
a spade amongst hearts.
I am the City Poet.
I am a word swimmer,
a shipbuilder who rhymes,
the planner of good times.
I am an evil messenger,
the dart in his face.
I am the City Poet.
I am these streets,
a fag in the pewking gutter,
the ministry of obscure diseases.
I am your filthy town,
the tears in your homesick eyes.
I am the City Poet.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
