The prison-like tower perched above us on the other bank of the Don reminds us who we aren’t
But I’m on my side where spring reigns

On the Don’s banks in Tillydrone
Where a group of men speak Polish and drink beer cans and watch the sunset

And we all ignore the scent of sewage and instead look at the grass and the flower buds

And when I look at this juxtaposition of things
I cant help but wonder if grand design is wrong

This brutalist architecture and chaotic sewage spew
A spring battlefield of everything

Starting and stating its existence
Fucking in the mud with fury

And when I look at this juxtaposition of things
I cant help but think that nature is the first opportunist:
It flings shit at the wall;
It’s either al dente or overcooked.

But what waits for us
Back at these monolithic
Thatcherite council flats?

Council flats which rise up out of the landscape in four fingers and a thumb

A hand
Waiting to subsume us all under the ground?

Many in this neighborhood would like to think that
God has a plan

Well, it’s either that
Or maybe God has a drinking problem