Concrete Junk Jungle

Tortishell cat is the pelt of a city

Twirling to Jazz chords

Strumming off dissonance

To the string of an electric guitar

Breaking buildings open

Architecture as the moving spectacle

Into concrete bloc-ed

Melodies, Motorways, bridges, houses

The citizen is percussion bound

Step, step, break by another

Till thrown forward in syncopation

Electric speed of car lighten progression

Climactic mid-day of peak hours humming down

Stopping and starting in a frozen back motion

Retrograding heliographs of sound bouncing

Moment of concrete dwelling

Out of the wild palm leaf,

Ibis droppings crawls

The Jaguar hidden roaring

Hunting the subject to find something

Around the next bend

-ing

The world around itself to meet back at

The night-ridden dusk of an orange sun

That blooms again cat pelts

Slowing speed to cricket calls

To the spore light and mellow tune

Of a heart-strung moon

The Romantic pauses to take a drink

From the black river that consumes

All colour-crazed mayhem

And finds no home here in contradiction

Dying away as he searches for new, orient-al

Sound wave, guitar rift of originality

And for nature to reign over the concrete

Bring back the harmonic music

Of a strut down the decay of laneways

Here he flashes a-new after love forlorn

Closing over as a night walker double-edged

Using his sound to make sonic sarcasms

Pushing us forward to come to a point

New light gained, genius in ostensible ideal

Of individual ___ love

That may stay slow as cooled self-obsession

Wielding his yielding guitar of reason

Ego, ergo sum

Dead songs sung

Here I sit waiting for

The new junk jungle

Flower to bloom

Language langage

Language langage

Un mot de francais…

This tool bends itself

As hot iron forged

In unmalleable forms

Of two points

Out there in the dark

That omit to me

Out of brained matter

From a world of infinity

Different for a moment solid entities

Until the clock clangs

All back to liquid form

Cooled down to

Some mercurial curse

Some forged reductive

Here speaking as

‘a word of french’

It is of this heavy penned s-word

That something else

Tells you this whisper between two worlds

Is not every word, sentence phrase a scream and then a whisper?

Some closed over concrete block

slipping?

Know. know, know,

Still.

No.

Speak, speak, speak

Move.

Yes.

Art-iculate.

Be.

Stay in Brisbane

Summer

Slim bridges skim across mud

Meandering across satellite shimmers

Tall hopes

Sky up to blue

Voice scream and conflict cage

‘til I come back

See myself lost

Where sun shines

Enlightening

Summer in the heart

Picasso Faces

Sense crashes image around body

Mmm… taste

The white walls make a fruity Matisse

Buzz numb in brain - paint falls away

To this soft tongue day

The open organs of Degas’ whores

Bleed out over skin

Mixing some tension in cores

Of Contrast

Molding Picasso’s

Ever-twisting face

Chandelier in hotel window

Cased light in the dream

Suspended in glittered static

There surrounds a darkness invisible refracted to gleam

Hope of moths collecting around

Weighty opulence ripe to fall

Below sits some neon

Of ideals hologrammed out

To flowing diversity of ants

That grow beyond

To some individual flash

Back to promises more

What are we society?

Collective individuals

Drowning over this utopia

Lens of eyes around the dazzle

Beyond the chandelier

Be-dazzle by beguilement

A merlin wand of security bound money

Icon Icon Icon of belonging

To those grand keep-safes that circle

Above my head and steal a beauty

Where are you?

Beyond between below the flowing

Movement of skies and the hidden dark of muddy

Voices lost under in the starry dungeon of dispossession

Come back, go away, return, flee

Until stars fade and the mud sits dark and alone

Pressing under weight

Becoming Stone