where media shout idiot
and intrude on steel streets
screaming over hatchback engines.
I lurk like a Douggie
in the corner shop.
where a Girl and a Man
bicker by pub railings
flesh fresh red from
sudden sun.
wearing small clothes.
they are
cold and stacked
dark shapes in the car park.
where a Man baits his warm pint friends-
clutching them in anger.
pushes and
embraces and
lies to their faces
holding his small phone
like a heart.
where we all drink past midnight
and the air doesnt move.
the night breathes
invisible exhaust
into childrens
lead heads sleeping.
Petropolis-
where the night pants
like a dog cliché
and a fox runs
like a red hungry metaphor
in machine tight streets.
Petropolis-
where I took advice
from the
Poet Laureate of San Francisco
and
found open water
and
a private airshow.
where the sky machines of man
stand on their fin tails
and
fall from heavens beaches
to swoop and swerve in the
thick pollution river air.
where I took it Seriously
on the concrete plinth of dole.
I tried to take it Seriously
my legs swing over litter and bramble.
this jumble life around me
suddenly
took words
important
out from mothballs.
where toy knickers that are amazing sending snug messages to the rear seats of back lane nights. a real rain bolts acid on to thirsty nature.
where prisoners taken for mental duels
misunderstand on purpose
behind rear views.
the dangling dice rocks
gambling
on the Hungry Lords
to MAINTAIN
and run tomorrows black gold.
where we cry
Its Alright Ma,
We All Die
And I’m Only Sharing.
Petropolis-
where the machines
shine in silent rows
and
twinkle.
Petropolis-
where the car roads
are man rivers
flooding with land wrecks
that
Borgomatic GTs
pass
winking orange
and hissing
quiet elephant screams
in the rainbow slicks.
where enthusiasts babble drivel
about machines that dabble.
their blind lamp-eyes
after market extras
for rotten organic minds
never blinking
in the now-future of grey garden lawns
of
Petropolis.
where Power
is a tin cart
huffing out
lead smoke
of throat choke.
black bogies
in Petropolis
noses.
noses masked like Vader.
where Cars are
the Cigarette of the masses.
our metal lung
only makes us angry
when we cannot
see the face wot cut us up.
only makes our arse fatter.
our private booths
are our new faces
of thin grills
empowered
and
overmade
under our radar.
where planes like crucifixes fly
dense ballets
on the sky wings of daytime.
and
on the humble cracked weed ground
growling Grovers
take loose corners
alone in wide saloons.
Petropolis-
where natures body
lies dry and shot
on the blacktop.
(AND WE WATCH TV)
Petropolis-
where we watch
caged beasts
alive with self-projections
all their hate plans
on hold cos
of our eyes watching.
where we know
they ‘Know
What Arseholes
Look Like’
here volunteers strut
needy
with teddy bear beards
and weasel ears.
they have all
forgotten
how to dress in clothes.
where screaming Queens
and posh Fags
clash and mesh
with munting Dullards
and hefty Slags,
over-thinking
deluded Hags
wobble hormonally
in the wake
of footy Lads.
where day-dancers dramas
in hep new shades
are struck moody
or dumb
by the frightened one-
calling for discipline.
all living there
inside our
WatchaMachine.
where trousers are all forgotten about
and flapping flesh flashing
is tactical game playing.
the know we are
looking
at their obvious
flesh
and nothings less real –
on the WatchaMachine.
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