where Alphas
battle without horns
on concrete moonscapes/hatchbacks circled
6 stereos on/lights full beam
and
the forced and forcing heart-sleeve failures
have
msg energy
of the plastic soylent
eaten
out boxes in
Petropolis steam diners
watch stern in frayed cardigans.
where rage comes from sofas
slopping warm booze about-
‘You Dont Know What You Are Doing!’
and
‘Who Is This Shit About?’
yells
that
bounce off closed condensation windows
look
out onto walls.
(where heated dogs
stalk in words/real rules
too primal in here/microcosm of a shit
world.)
where they
must be seen as
nice and
must be
seen as honest
and
must show their
being
transparent to boredom
they scare us/we are their mirror - frightened.
where dolls eyes
praying
princess tears
apologise in advance/holding the limelight
of our disgust
under
oily
water and
behind
glass
screens.
Petropolis-
where the robots
are the subtle cages
of the plastic Tube.
(AND WHERE ARE THE ROBOTS?)
Petropolis-
where theres no real robots.
Blame
Robin Williams
or
Lucas Muppets
flopping chemistry free on blue screens.
where once Metropolis Magic
and
human Robocop tragedy would've ruled
in man shapes –
Iron Zombies
but
tom-toms and iphones instead . . .
where once
they were to fly our grey skies
in Escher grids
of enormous invasion
thinking beyond
their soft builders.
where once
They Would Not Stop -
now rolling our dumb flaw up in superconductors
and repeating circles
rising numbers
like hatchbacks
like rats.
Petropolis-
where man-made pests
make us autos guests.
(Autogeddon)
Petropolis-
where the Big Men
do incredible stunts
in the rain
with
machines machines machines
that extend their power
beyond blame.
where I crossed
the line of forever
that waits
at the end
of childhoods panic/in Petropolis i am
and
walking
on
my own legs.
where Mans foul exhaust
is never black/running on secret nature
plush and above
buried yesterday blacktops
of impacted old death.
where Oil Soldiers
bleed Coca-Cola red
and
Genius dies in the closet
mumbling into
his beard/his fingers pencils
long
ago.
where Autogeddon
looms out of convenience
that kills
the super sky/Autogeddon
clogs up the firmament like
smokers
valves.
where the PM
only wants a place in history/has one
of hysterical false complicity-
war engines use
black gold
to fight for
black gold control.
where the Action Star
pledges California muggy fug
down to last decades levels/this man
drove a Humvee
over
his
own
dog.
where South Central
cop fodder
cant see Hollywood sign on the dream hill
cos we already
died
on
Dead Mans curve.
where mountains of Nevada
are a thick blue haze
heavy from Vegas Hotels
fatally short
of water not cars.
where the cracked pavement
bleeds Jackson blood and
face-paper consensus
holds us
fragile like Dozer plastic.
where ozone is depleting
and
drivers drive in herds
hooting like sheep bleating.
Petropolis-
where truckers
will strike
for a penny-off barrel.
Petropolis-
where the brain dead
exhausted
blink-a-blink
in 21th Centurys
steel horses
organised
and
stampede home
in tight slow grids.
where outside is a small chore.
where coats are no more.
where nature is only leisure.
where i am weak
and battered
by butterfly wings
on narrow sport court
of double yellow lines.
Petropolis-
where Autogeddon has all the funding.
Petropolis…
where they sit
almost smiling
in polished rows
sideways blinking
smug together
numbers in their windows.
where TV
is a brother-mother
that holds us all to sleep
in strange arms
of
friendly lies.
where cars kill kids
on barbed bumpers
and
in the yards
of their
dashboard time.
where green fingers
talk of
solutions
and
hold keys ready
to point to the sofa/to the future!
where concrete sides
hem tiny leather flips
machine swapping
in Petropolis
narrow canyons.
where commercial radio rains
on side windows
and backshelf
fluff fest of stuffed friends
colour up murder.
where the brainfree
are a backside
petrified on sidelines
coughing
for the bus of lost
stains smudged
in corner seats.
where Boys and Girls
bounce steel balls
in grid tunnel drives-
a game
underground
used to a country lane.
where chevrons
point where pavements were walked;
accessible stereotypes
single file to
automated slots.
where the Green Belt
unbuckles in a dense blanket
breathing dinosaurs
and body language/twitches behind pastel steel.
where flat black eyes
manufacture in excelsis
under Blade Runner skies/clumsy noodles
thunder on Hals space grave
(…Dave…)
where I take a Johnny-Cab
to the fodder-vender
on Auto-Corner
for oxygen and water
imported with black gold
from the small poles
crying themselves smaller.
Petropolis-
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