Liberal party: from the hearty

We rage for our generation in the hopes the old ways remember the immorality of inconsistent belief. The first world obligated to remain vigulent to demented ideas from within,  to evil orange sprites

What happened? When was our progress smeared by selfish uses of our gear?

I hope ignorance and greed of 18th White ‘rights’ can be healed, for the sake of our beloved, I do try to hope. Seems all too true, this vigilance we must keep as fire in our chests, lest we see a future coloured darkest blue. Not long till the rich twitch from nooses and catch nicks from pitchforks for their abuses.

Higher networth… Seems only a dirth, while we sit praised and punished in one boomer breath. Payback’s a bitch from those with sewn lips and scarred thighs, can’t help but question the motives of Liberal voters, despite a fear of dogma to their side, I see only self interest and no bother. So many arguments of scale starring ‘why bother.’

Does that bother you? Wouldn’t it do? That precious few decide it fine for you to get screwed, while nihil surprise their profits grew. Sick of the values of work from those least down to earth. Doesn’t this seem insane? Very least strange?

Wonder my distain to the billion or so heirs names? While they so seamlessly gain while other lay slain. Yet heirs would say those in pain are our bane.

Hit’s a nerve don’t it? Like the nerve of big profit to profligate such hate.

Hypocrisy that can’t be playcated. I maintain I simply wonder, simply wonder on an explaintion.

Pink Glaze :gM Sneak Peak

Beacons flag at a lit sky over the abstract symbol of production. Something gained for everything lost. John: ‘there are some people who are productive with their days.’ Magusto: ‘How do they get up this early on a Sunday morning?’ Slumping back onto the rail of the skate park.

Lost track of time, so it goes. With all our lives promised as day time creatures, we are restless. Asleep in the dim morning is the instinct of insects night the time of limited prospects and low regard for objects, pro’s suggest our early morning counter parts are due in their success but the dew is more than water for the eyes of early risers. It’s quenches the thrist of those who have been awake since dawn dawned the night before. Lost track of light, so it goes.

As the sky rises seems to give the only honest interactions between productive and wastrels. Smiles from dog walkers to bicycle riding hooligans, iris’ stretched, wired as they are. The one with the pooch may even turn home to tell their still waking husband of the wonder they saw of such early morning risers in such young faces! Though they didn’t see the bottle of bourbon stashed near that gum tree. No those details slip by anyone who has seen total black the night before… And is that a joint or a cigarette petard to their lips?

For everything gained something is lost, lost wonder, for them who couldn’t see the light through light thoughted routine, The streams of the sun through lastnight’s clouds or the inner fury to keep thrashed eyes open. Gained is that stability of thinking we’re probably layabouts about to fall of the rails, the plans of which their corporate emails entail. But always concrete cathedrals paile to a stars holy grail. Title all so fickle in the morning light. Nature has a prickly sense of justice, patience to match. While others catch rest the best will see no than sleep upon death. Twice as many breaths and a stretch. Nails hardened at this and hair grows long.

Skin rubbed raw and claws rake faces that have endure beats and bludgeons to stay trudging on.

The insects instincts and reactions strain outward from high eyes, as euphoria fades to splayed soul, in love with all. Small trash matching clutching schedules residual value

I’m telling, you know little of sleeping rough, drivel, no bluff neither do we. But those staining tired eyes shed light on plights they feel dry toward. Only difference is the shades. Only difference is our parents made it, while they fade with no fresh pink glaze.

That’s probably what they think it’s why we’re doing this. So what can we do but keep sleepless nights contemplating corporate slights, for insects with no swarm aren’t long warm. Yet their utopia is out dystopia reality, ignorance is a privilege see we got the choice so did you, they choose both of two for the other to suffer the later. For everything gained something is lost.

But we the dreamless dream of heterotopia the beautifully plain middle ground that contains in spaces our fires glazed pink from just. letting. go. 

Truely rose coloured even when we remove or sunglasses

πŸŽπŸŽ‹πŸŒŠ

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Dear Rupert

Every off decision I’ve made forms craters and cuts on my face. I wonder how your pores aren’t excavated. I wonder how your flaws don’t flip you in your bed.

I wonder how you reach ‘the current plan’ did you care? Did you know? Could you show me so? Where does your sole land and where does your soiled soul sleep? Does it weep? Is it a slug like monster that coils in a ball sucking the light from your eyes for sustinance? Behind those thick rimmed glasses can you make out anything but your singular goals? Do you not see our nooses or have you forgotten you have one too? The higher the tower you build in life, the further you fall limp and lifeless at the end falling of breakneck till you break your neck.

Do those glasses shield your eyes up there? Do you expect what you are given? Do you believe you deserve it? Do you think you earnt shit? Do you believe what you preach? do you want free speech? Can you accept your open concete? Have you realised your own demise? Do you know your history? Or is it just another sound mystery?

How can you remain so blissfully unaware betting with others lives without care?

πŸŒŠπŸŽπŸ’±

The G Figure

In the name I find myself longing after there is only an echo, a little tinny voice that speaks back at me, mockingly in my own voice as if to say ‘that’s what you sound like.’ As I call the name of a deity that allows famine, with our free will as their only defence I hear only the wind reply. As I feel myself forgetting my own lessons. Their messengers sit cross legged in the trees passing my voice along with billions more; sheparding us toward it. The plees woft on, hurded with the others to their ears. While all we hear are echoes of our own voices.

Reminding us of what we sound like. Do we starve to our sorrow? Do we find shelter in that cheque, Do we feel parched for our possessions? Did Fyodor play a fickle fancy fiddle or did his riddle make God giggle

πŸŽπŸŒŠπŸ’±πŸΎ

Blue Rosey Jazz

The instrument has a swing to it, but underneath the lilting rhythms it plays there is a sadness only music could conceal under such bombastic noise.

It’s the sadness of walking the streets in that blue late night air. It’s in the gazes one could shoot down alleys, knowing in one of them a addict is using up the last of their stash.
The tune of that brass curve will follow you round the bends of concrete and bitchumen, fluctuating it’s strength like the wind that sheers off your chipped shoulder on a gusty day.
It’ll saunter alone, drifting through the clouds as you ask a God on high to stop you from the terror you’re about to unleash.
One could sit transfixed in it’s melody passing off everyone, and all else, to pluck that sadness from it.
It sounds so beautiful when you’ve done no wrong.
Yet will make you clutch for the bottle while you lay in the clutches of regret.
It will make you scream for salvation from a nail bed of your own making, or cause you to relish a beating.
It brings those with hollow halos down to swig from lucifers chalice.
It makes turning the cheek possibl and will even call some to noir murder. It wil touch the fire in your belly till you bellow forth your true self or a flame so violent it will shred you raw.
At which point ‘where do you turn?’ With such beautiful self hatred in your palms ‘where do you turn?’
Do you project to the world a softly stoic rapsady? Or do you trumpet an inferno of rage, a jet fuel candle soul to leave a memory tarnished with no one.
With no one around who would care to correct the reputation of an arsonist.
For you see these are no vocals from an unknown sorrow, these floating clouds, these dingy alleys, these terrors or that fire.
This is not lucifers chalice, this is blue rosey Jazz.
This is my soul screaming at itself as the sax screeches at me
This is my holy horned self loathing.
πŸŽπŸŒŠπŸ™

Still Life With No View

The streets, the pavement, both damp from lastnight’s rain, the dreary glum hanging off the grey sky bears upon the avenues and rail carred main roads.

The day begins slowly while walking the sidewalk. The movement of pedestrians is drowned out by the light patter of rain drops on plastic umbrellas.

People move between shop fronts quickly and wait for the perfect moment to leap puddles.

Cats lay immobile in eccentric shop keepers windows lazy to the outside world. Evening falls away from the day light slowly in this rain and leaf litter decays slowly in oil slicked streets.

Little moments seem framed by the clay tile rooves and grey skies, ones that make the quiet daytime seem only more still.

The first trains sway and rattle past stations, glistening, as the sun cracks letting the first light of the day stream through the clouds.

The plants become vivid bright against dull grey rain curtain, people gather under the covers of the the station, stragglers left to huddle under their umbrellas whipping phones with shivering didgets of purple palms.

The city and it’s residents blend together In the full weather navy suits indistinguishable from the reflective glass, grey suits seeming to flatten into the concrete foot paths.

Ties hang like liked status from executives necks in cafes where hospo workers play subservient with a head full of speed from the night before.

Only places that seem full are inside where the wet can’t reach.
Strange how few of us pray for rain anymore.

We see our cracked screens vulnerable as children.

While few venture into the streets and cleansing rain, the teams are packed.

Few make the adventure into the street but the odd eccentric who couldn’t hold onto the board as the 60’s wave crashed.

‘Mick Kilkavile you killed me for 37 years, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna shoot first before he kills me, Mick Kilkavile Mick Kilkavile.’

A transient yells at passers by, his face drenched in rain, yelling at anyone who will listen. The world gets still in the rain, stories like who will kill Mick Kilkavile can be heard.

My favourite weather is rain 

πŸŽπŸŽ‹

Airports

I have a strange envisaged dream, it’s in the smallest of suitcases at the height of excitement. The world a tantalizing matter of hours away, the hotel rooms filling and fast, the mad dash for a taxi cab at some ghastly hour when every thought of home is put aside for the trip and the thrill of arrival.
In those late sleepy times I see myself clutching a whiskey or similar night time beverage, the warmth from the aroma of it fills my nostrils and calms me more than the mini sized comforts of a hotel room ever could.
This is truly free time. quiet ‘free time’ for a few hours at least the quits it’s onslaught of ideas on how to kill time, stops, and pulls the trigger. Here the electronic ring before the casing echoes off the floor, there is a moment of serenity.

Another 5 hours and $25 dollars pass and in the dream I’m heading toward a side of the world I have only seen through slighted memorabilia and misunderstood charms. So I want the truth, seems a natural clichΓ© a writer capturing the details of a culture so other that it is a fantasy to which the other them-self is deluded.

But details are the devils work, no in this echoing free time I capture the unseen vibe and fumbling of people within their skin; Cool cats, too nimble for the eyes of normal.
While tired eyes mingle with the next dream, I sit drinking from the glass till either chapter or the booze finishes me off for the night.

πŸŽ‹ 🎍