Saturday, April 18, 2009

Grey Ink

the sky's a grey stain until you unstitch your eyes
until the clouds define the missing bits of sky
like little bits of everything between bits of nothing
it just pours the buildings over the cities
into one smudge dribbled between
crease-white rivers stained black
it's true what they say it's the
same old city just a different name
you slip on raindrop-shattered safetyramps & now you're on
brunswick street brisbane tossing silver
cigarette butts at Native Nightowl Buskers & now you're on
brunswick street sydney that surely exists
somewhere between punchbowls and hurtsvilles
and punchvilles and hurtbowls & now you're on
brunswick street melbourne with loveletters
scribbled backwards behind receipts
ripped from atms mistreated discretely then
poetically defeated
those impersonal identification numbers
can chill you cold
but bones are inconsistent and
the metal is already deadrust in the soil
from where graffiti grows

up slithering between bricks over tunnels
dripping down back onto trains/windows like
smiling frankensteins or fuckedup santas
down over pinkgreenwhiteblue vomit alleys like
mosaic space invaders like inversed bondage whores
naked to cafes and traffic and
homeless artists crying when their cardboard sculptures
won't sit still just walk in circles for hours
climbing over gutters once grey now stained
with little bits of nothing
(but enough water poured on enough colour undefined
will restain any lover grey)

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