Melbourne
The sound of jazz and the smell of coffee, the black chalk board menus and the smell of st Kilda seaweed beach air, the Smokey pubs with rock guitars and bogan singers that smell of beer and piss, uncles and aunties that fold their legs trying to think of nothing but there breathing, but unable to steady there mind from there intellectual artistic visions.
From composers of symphony’s to men who play jazz keyboards on a Friday night along with miles Davis on the trumpet wishing they were able play there ten tones like one of his, from killers to poets that spend their days in cafes of piano checkerboard keys contemplating who “the hollow men must be”.
I’ve met them all, from A to Z, in Melbourne, the artistic place to be, surrounding us with Melbourne midnight fire balls and rainbow night time fountains and trams that squeak on their tracks, filled with strangers that share the seats, Melbourne musical beats that come from the performance on the street.
The city bum’s who hold up signs in one hand that speak of prophecies “the day will come” with the other, there cold broken knuckles firmly grasp the paper bag bottle of rum that sooths the days into nights and nights into hangovers, desperate they ask for our parents coinage only to be turned down or humiliated by mindless business zombies
From militant vegans to carnivores that curse “chuck another fucking snag on the Barbie” while choking down another piece of flesh, tearing it apart with their sharp teeth which reminds me of the way life goes in this convict established town that idealizes thief’s that wear tin helmets with holes across the eyes and a gun pointed at the bank man’s face, we look upon this with contempt eyes of grace and no disgrace, Melbourne, an unusual place.
And finally the warm Australian sun that keeps the foolish sun tanners at the beach, the local corner video shop that our fathers have taken us to since we were unable to reach the door handle of the store, souls that are warmed by the acoustic guitar played by musical super intellectuals down at the Melbourne town hall, our minds overwhelm and drown.
This is the nature of the nurture.
David James Westlake
I share a similar view David, but one of anonymity, a group of individuals sharing different faces. Clouds of ripe nicotine poison our human cells Down Swanston Street, and the Goth population wallows in self pity, beneath the Flinders Street clocks.
ReplyDeleteBut this is what I see, and you write of something you hear in the places of Melbourne I have yet to discover. It is truly a remarkable visage, or so do the suited men want us to say.