Trampled Confetti – Michael-Kemb Yates

The woozy pace of nightlife blurs
card burrows where with paws unfurled
doped rodents beg for metal scraps—
some coins for their addictions…
Parading ponies flex their chests
at flaunting peacocks poised to stun: —
this backdrop is the ceaseless rave
we love and hate, our Oxford Street.
I’m saturated by the taste
of fast-foods soaking drunken gut;
I’m inundated by loud beats,
and sex at every corner.
The seagulls peck at dregs of food
discarded by the urban mouth,
and I’ve consumed more than I need:
I go, before Dawn finds me.
Who’s territory is this stretch?
—the hipsters’, junkies’, drags’, or queers’?
Once pathway for Indigenous clans
their footprints disappearing;
now colonised by glittery waste,
where Hedonists pray to neon lights
of thronging clubs, which flash like Gods
dispensing red epiphanies.
I wander, fading like the sparks
of disco-balls that prick your hair;
elusive as the scent of drugs
that ripples through the morning air;
as transient as identity.
Confetti streams adorned the sky
yet now lie trampled on the ground;
the shimmering floats have all dispersed;
the Festival continues…
I’ve wandered lands to find this trail—
my exodus has brought me near—
and now, as gaudy as this street,
I blend into the colours here.