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