Crew

with thick black pens
we scrawl our names
and with chromium blades
we etch our slogans
embellishing our identities
on your glassy newness
a pack of hidden faces
gambling on the turn of life’s next card

heat from the five-oh
raises Marijuana pulses
and liberates sticky soles
from the gum strewn street
augmenting our attitudes
towards your Democracy
maverick colour seekers
with black and white dice loaded against us

Conscience

What future for a city
When the seers become the seared?
When the Looking Glass is lost?
and blind to our disfigurement we crash on.
History chooses not to watch;
She turns her face from the ugliness of our excess
Perhaps tomorrow will bring a tissue
To wipe the paint from this old moll’s face?

What future for me
When my edges become exaggerated?
When my roller-coaster has so much height
and so little anchorage.
Has calamity become inevitability?
Or will Humility’s voice restore to me the day
I first heard back the echo of the street
in the dark alleys of my own heart.

The Block

LOBBY:
Aloof from vulgar tarmacadam
the polished chamber of soles
is listening suspiciously
careful not to breathe a word

101:
Anatomy of aspiration
Turning plastic into paper
Guaranteed happiness in cold green glass

201:
Telemetry of tragedy
Flash burn and exit wound
Crimson shadows creep across beech laminate

301:
Juxtaposition of Joy
Blue dot means green light
Ecstatic voices pillory their Rumplestiltskin

401:
Serenity of sloth
Press red for instant pleasure
Caustic fantasy severs humanity from personality

501:
Immanence of ideas
Grey carbon traces a footprint
Conjured opinion regards unnecessary future

ROOF:
Ruling sand and quicklime
the panoptican of metropolis
is watching flirtatiously
hoping to catch a wandering eye