Uncaptive. Illogic. Luminous.
Draped city,
we perform our own surgeries
loudly.
The heft of sunset -
worn couples rusted to the bar,
a series of neon sighs.
Their inevitable toxic
accusations bounced out a side door.
Cover band covers all.
A bandage to all the raucous expiration
among the table-clique audience.
The new Angels chorus, inclusive of consumption -
no way,
get fucked,
fuck off.
And we smile at our concoction,
and we synchronize our eye-rolls
with the eyes of the poker machine.
All distilled into blurbs comradian.
...
Pitt street smells like ancient bakeries
dueling with titan vodka.
Alleys with piss cobwebs
and smashed bottle minefields.
The traffic venomous
and ready for metal.
Hooked grins
numerous as cheque book slips.
Technicolour stars scroll-out a worn millenium.
Laugh sifter, mask foundry.
Hand in pocket charmer.
...
The disco junkie smashed the toilet bowl
in that sharp fuse of speed what-comes-next?
The Others new wave charleston beat
strobes the underbelly of a nicotine dragon -
a young man needs violence.
A cemetery of shot-glasses.
The flash photography
of munch-faces.
An occasional buckle of limbs
cuffed or pumped limp.
Downstair casino fishtank pylons
frothed with foreign game.
Casualties tuxedoed.
The confessional booth of taxi's
and their digital tithe.
Spannering the stars
to make night permanent.
...
Pre-pass-out-burst-plastic offspring.
All the owl-eyed
and sun-disintegrated smirks.
Down in the park with neighbours
in the frayed assembly of purpose.
