Gentrification, they scream at me
from behind sunglasses and infinite
torque. They blame my skin! My cock!
The number of years I have danced!
Proclaiming me unfit to walk these
streets once baptized in worker
sweat, now a haven for the middle-class,
sorrow. I will not bend my knee to these
opinionated oppressors, denied!

There’s a little place down
on Simrishamnsstreet, just a
couple of blocks from here,
by Möllevångssquare.
That’s where they roost,
angel-headed with pants from
the city of Manchester, brown.

Buttoned up shirts stained with
as much coffee as self-doubt mixed
with text-book narcissism, truly!
Sipping black life and chewing down
those bits of eco-friendly dairy-based
concepts, not so much jazz but retro.

Alive, puzzled together by hamstrings
and forgotten verses. Where are those
ancient people now, I wonder?
With their thick black glasses and
their loathing for all things
streamed mainly. Now replaced by
mechanical monstrosities billowing
books of faces via a web of subterfuge.
Letting fruit symbolize what it means
to be young and free care in this adopted
city of mine. I go there sometimes,
to mix with other nuts, feminazis and
liberals disguising themselves as
manarchists, jokingly. One can hope!

I order my coffee with milk and
my company sans sanity.
I like their touch to be intense
and their eyes shallow, shoals.
I hope to one day be allowed
to project my words and thoughts
upon these hallowed caffeine walls, poems!
For now I find myself content simply
frequenting my siblings in arms,
observing with equal parts fear
and loathing and kinship, connected.