Monsters,
The kind that bite.
Mindless…Moronic …Monsters, through the city we go…..
Under the streetlight lit streets chasing the shadows who have connected to our feet, crazy midnight Melbourne rain and nighttime warriors with umbrella battle shields searching for taxis and trains.
Complaining, contemplating, and the verbal bullshit draining we hear from them on day to day, coming from black suit and white shirt workers of flaming evenings, with high financial incomes but somehow an extraordinarily low perception of pay.
When there are children that stand in front of speeding bullets and hack the limbs of fallen soldiers to stack them like toppled dominos in a box, their innocent skeletons tremble catatonically in there now New York playgrounds of lollipop knives.
With our red hoods we walk through the midnight darkened woods, to the hungry wolf we approach dazed and confused, a joint lay between our foolish lips with strong fixations upon the contemporary hallucinations.
We stand here with our hundred dollar wrist watches ignoring the helpless cries, while ordering our nine to five coffees, trying to push it all aside.
These unenlightened workmen living in there excused worlds of happening invisible nightmares that occur in pitch black darkness and darkened blackness and blackened darkness surrounded by art and music that is underserved and symbolically,… heartless.
The city bums who ask us for directions to the man of double sided green paper, and black bottle tops. Their cold skeleton fingers tightly grasp the bottle of suicide gin that sooths the days into nights and the nights into hangovers, turning memories into crazed Hendrix purple haze.
Who crawled stubbornly through newspaper streets of musical nonsense beets, begging at our militant selfish body connected feet, as we walk through these zebra towns.
Who’s feeble minds construct religions upon the belief that the zebra is two separate animals.
Who spurt out with incoherent melodic recipes that cook in the stomach like led. Vicious racist vampires, like tattooed neo Nazis and the crazed Ku Klux Klan, feed of their own flesh and blood.
Who cannot see Devine artistic creativity in the genius of heavenly painted symphony because they cannot perceive the horrors of narcissistic manmade religions that turn each man into the god of universal childish complexity.
Did we paint our own reflections after all?
We will cross our unintentionally wicked hands and close our frightened blinded eyes even harder than it is known to have been physiologically possible, and will wish that all of our deserved pointless problems would vanish like exploding world trade centre’s that where filled with magical American fireworks planted by mindless sociopathic monsters.
Were like a horse chasing a carrot that is hanging above its crazed hungry face. Human intelligence is like giving a young child a loaded shotgun.
We should help them, we should help them, “to the ignoramus fathers of society “we should help them!!”Let us rattle the rich man society cages of selfish stupidity and ignorance that confines us to this cultured burden of “Eden”.
A pathetic comfort zone of jazz green marijuana that floats over lamp lit, top hat streets, a formulation of cheap mathematics performed by pseudo intellectuals, that fly midnight kites with Mary Jane.
Where we can’t stop chasing our forever moving shadows and remember that there are horrific battles beneath our feet, like crazy mad barking dogs that lunge at their tails and bite as hard as they can yelping in pain.
The flick of the equivocal mans Olympic torch, a forever burning lighter that sets of chains of Medicare dynamite, Idiosyncratic black teeth that smell of bong and a gun pointed at the man who raised me, wielded by long dead ghosts and ghouls, whom sat at my cradle.
Under silver healing moon light they sleep, laying drunken on city golf courses unable to reach the soapy carwash driveways that lead to their fantastical houses of the forever expanding universe.
lying there we cry tears that fill oceans with drops of sadness, each by each praying on the battlefields of suburban moon light monsters that carry moonlight monster knives and crack needles, waving them in the air like there the identification key to the universal drug store of aids and Hep c.
Angry werewolf Gangsters that are painting intellectual visions of million arm statues that reach through the hour glasses of lifetimes, unfairly labeled trash art.
Guitar men singing songs outside of checkerboard piano cafes, beneath flaming midnight fireballs and night time rainbow fountains, guitar cases filled with phantom ruby treasure, once lost in the sea of deep blue jean pockets.
I see Peaceful corner shop heroes trying to make a day’s pay, robbed by heroin hungry junkies with piano key teeth and yellow cheek, black eyed memories that bleach the soul of all the purest of green extremities.
In the seas of raging alcoholic teens, under ancient blue skies and artist painted clouds, drives ferocious angry commodores, Screeching screams of screaming teapots that boil water for flower cups of soulful green tea, for warm hearted Melbourne beasts that drink under the Clair de Lune, of candle lit stars, the down under moon.
Children with holocaust bedtime stories about men with alien Nazi tongues, puzzled by the great puzzler, of 10,000 monster eyed lamp lit windows, glowing over Melbourne streets, like a never ending checkerboard built from inextricable white light time portals, that cast upon us the silk silhouettes of the poets of death with visualized doomsday prophecies, while the moonlight piano man dances under ancient trees of quavers that grow through these pugnacious concrete streets of rape and homicide.
Where the haunted memories of violet blue midnight violence shall never die.
Influencing our reflections that are filled with serpents shooting like crazed heroin, they are our hair, mangled and knotted. And if we dare look, we will turn to solid crystal stone.
Soon, under the grandfather clock of time we all shall slip, a wristwatch, a needle, a tick. And out will come the glow of the heavens, with symphonies of forever no more, silent Melbourne sleep.
Under infinite godless skies we have infinite been returned , a forever lasting death I speak, and in reply, a man with scruffy hair and dirty clothes summons the voice of god with violins, moonlight and cheek, he is a whisper in my convoluted ear, mocking at, my godless fear.
David westlake
