Missed messages and sidewalk stalemates;
This sideways city confuses me.
An urban infestation, there’s no assimilation,
Just an old man with his foot on my throat.
A colonial boot, a well-pressed suit,
With the rag-clad clinging to the edges.
The old girl in front growls at the beeps
Of some renegade opal machine,
Engaging tunnel-vision in 3…2…1…
But she looks so fine, vanguard of the woeful,
With her twine-secured zippers and off-pink crocs;
Where is she going and why does she growl?
Parramatta Road flies past the frosted glass
In some stereoscopic blur; that strange, empty street,
Lined with junk and endless alleys,
Boasting flawless wedding gowns and lighting displays
For no-one in particular,
Like a shy parakeet or a toothless monk.
Soon I’m home to the sound of endless sirens
As something flies past the window;
The one with the corner rotted off
And the frost creeping in like a hiccup.
Probably one of the local cockroaches,
Looking for his mate, or maybe just an explanation,
Smeared against the underside of that well-shined boot,
I look out at the lemon slice lick up high,
Hanging low like a Cheshire smile,
Peaking out from the smog and light-pollution
That conceal the constellations that once
Danced upon my diorama.
Everyone seems to know someone
Who knows exactly how I feel,
That this land of opportunity
Is a collective sigh into the cold concrete
Of our own confused creation;
A land suffocating and sputtering,
But at least there’s good coffee.
Sweetly Unhappy People 