“Its a great place to be young,”
He waves his arm; there is construction everywhere,
buildings practically popping out of the ground like
multiple erections or moles granted courage.
The world’s oldest record store in Europe’s youngest
capital. A series of posters for gigs I’d never miss in
my own city.
Whenever I’ve got a Cardiff trip planned, I prepare
an excuse to wield against my Swansea friends’
how-could-you stares—The Other Woman, the Greener Grass, the
place their old best friend never calls from.
“you should really consider moving here. There’s a
scene you could plug into. Gigs every night.”
A Los Campesinos flyer finds itself involuntarily into
my pocket. I shuffle in and out the honeycomb of
arcades, buzzed off coffee.
But the buzz doesn’t last, out the other side is the
monstrous descent of mall-progress, named after
a saint, no-less, glass and metal rippling shower
Looming hideous over the few places I’ve come to know,
a City so desperate to assert itself as such it swallows and
is swallowed by the things that kill it,
You could really plug in here, feel the electricity
like a lightbulb, in a row of lightbulbs, flickering
and waiting for the bin.
okay, it needs work. but now I've got the Bellingham Edition, Cardiff Edition and Swansea Edition. The skeleton of my chapbook is complete and waiting to be filled in.