Frail factory legs of a town

 Back to the street

failed Brent still kicking around
His father dwarved but still alive
Using his arms as legs
And red face to communicate

No big hedges anymore
Open driveways
Just waiting for curious locals
their skeletons ready to hug you

The factory has an emotional mother
Decaying kelp
and a lost brother somewhere in the backroom checking his interests

A ghost factory infact
tears and wails as embraces are enclosed between mother and son
The small village shape shifts
As old characters disappear and new ones take their place

No place at all

Old Brent responsible for all those little tasks
The once integral life broken splintered
like one beautiful shin bone
Split and then fucking shattered

narrow roads and local gossip
phone lines empty
Everything in waves now
Transmitters interrupt your feelings

The old white bearded basketcase
lumbers somewhere near Te moana road
lifeless inside, ashamed
broken yet struggling to pass dawn into one new day

The human squiggles we are
The randomness of our perceptions and desires
Our propensity to get lost in ourselves

taste the flavors of delusion
And be given a taste of high scoville insanity

Coffee and cloud and the urgent jingle of the news channel chiming
what relevant novelty popped your attention
distracted you and created one of those driveways

So you can lean on a well built fence and spit about the current affairs
The useless redundant issues that bounce in and out
of euphorian journalists

Like throwing small aquariums across a factory
Old Brent will catch them
And echo some recent rhetoric

Luke warm stale watered down coffee
sweetened by milk and a lost dirty bottle of sweetener
that fell down the back of an old bench

Brent found it, handy that
His soul an abomination
The old factory hand abandoned

As if he traded place with the sweetener
like some overgrown recluse insect
Longing to change its inner skin
as the town outside him does painfully every year 

Misunderstood you ask
Both the town and it´s legs no doubt
But where does ignorance cut into raw sin

The big Z of Russia

 comrade the sea is not so far off
climb this building and find a vantage point
vehicles lay randomly strewn 
armored troops crawling through  

The ongoing storm brushes us into flooded shanty towns
heavy weapons tiring our unfed arms
Confusion and agitation teen soldiers solemn faces
We the turtles as bombs shatter rooftops

refugees are caught halfway through the medievil corridor
wet hay and darkness
Russia a jailer smirking with a fist full of keys
each one unlocking more pain in the east

antique furniture like sacred scripts
Tipped into the bonfires of pillage grips
huddling and praying for a victory before spring
Poison and sabotage to drain and follow them

External armor is the joke
when they have no internal protection
For the wounds incurred
by the shrapnel of conscience

Cut the animal

 Words cut this page open
They are the very blood hitting your eyes
they are red and staining your eyesight
ridiculing death and injuring themselves into existance

The source of all pain is your heart
these words tickle the veins
that blood always trying to surface to the skin
To the paper of the page like wayward inconvenient words

These words cut I swear they are rude and destructive
disappointing you of structure and comfort
smashing open your illusions of grand lifestyles
just to reveal the master we refuse to bow to

The human clay being formed
Each year a dagger wound
A few million words to convince us 
to send a few bricks to the tower of bable
a few righteous words to the bible

How arrogant are my digiting fingers to declare
They have the power to transcend this page
To nestle up there in your current mind
still bleeding all over you

Will you stitch them up?
seek comfort in the world of cushion and neon image
mute into some screen 
administiring relief and entertainment
Life is a sword cutting into you

Cutting from this page
As each comfort tires your purpose on earth
As each manipulation positions you 
Onto a padded conveyor belt factory grey
A thousand zoos, choose your cage

Off the compass

 Homeless father
where do your steps take you?
the cities of the after life
So full of god´s glorious glee

But a different universe molded us
none of these streets hold a residence Dad
Nomads inside our skulls old man
This world couldn´t vibrate us into it

Homeless father do you have enough clothes 
Does it get cold up there?
The sun half unwound
The ramp of heaven

Your many faces
like these lands
getting by as a spirit
the apathy of paradise buddy

Could we shake hands once more
I guess not
And the lawns and sunlit roads
That your slim soul abides
Is there any goal there
when this life has been served and devoured

I can tell you they are writing a comedy on earth
less funny with you all the way out there
Not even a lense to see us
Just a few awkward glances
in passing dreams

my example has gone
that box of important documents
Now traversing a city not of this earth
Are we the living flesh graceful
and entertaining

The riddle a few moments out of reach
not communicable to the living.
we have to read into life
like it was dropping hints the whole time Father
And you have no more than a rucksack
some direction not known to our compass

The old winter watering hole

 Grey english day colonizes the sky
Outside bar where beer and bragging meet age
Old stories of glory and clinginess to fixed identity
Broken purses in the garden stting there like labels
Not a coin but a spider

Understand the oldest part of yourself
striving to provoke some sort of virtue streak
hairs in his beard, white and passed
each one a plan in the past
matching the cloudy weather outside the bar

The addiction is not in your hand
It is already inside your veins
written into your blood like a hieroglyph
Jumping up and down when its overcast

You should see those old friends
Who had gone up to the taps
Dressed in their lives and aspirations
So they wouldn't have to give any long accounts
But how did they get here and what are they celebrating?

Social number

 she was the house
middle aged and suburban
Big front yard white concrete driveway

The need for suburban walls
chalk white driveways and garage doors
lawns that curve up to the front path

Some polished car halfway in
A sea of conclusion
radios and lawnmowers

A sense of conformity
dropping each one debt and badges
Life is simple they say

As they turn down the volume
on the mystery of life
We become bricks in our own homes

Courage decays

 Skeleton remains of courage
Beard and teeth pirates peak
riot speaks
wealth reheats

The bones have become grey
they stain themselves in the sun
They play autumn leaves
the trauma of life a few burning fists

Hitting our faces by the old bones
we use to speak with a lot
Out on the balcony of life
what kind of grip have your fingers got

That beard burning with all the cloud and pollution
that the megalopolis can pump in it´s fires
This need to know the box of wires
weve come to know and love

On the balcony rail more than ten stories up
Somekind of blessing some bravery
boldness
Automatic pleasure and validation

White freckled hands brace the steering wheel
of something youd want to be caught driving
Something these mass voyeurs could pop a pimple over
Some golden fleece elite imported
 
The deep deserve that poverty never recites
Never knows, cannot write of
And in its confusion denies
From its plate, its mouth what it´s brain implies

The skeletal remains of that old courage
An empty bottle in a gargled rant of a garage
Threaten to abandon the soft pig of heaven we all pitched in for
soft mud for these old bones to sink into

The exclusive tomb, the shade of the sun will
The slurping sound of heaven´s own love tunnel
Kicking up tentacles that pull you in
and you were worth loving in virtue and sin

The dollars collected across the well paid years
Running up the side of a told you so mansion
The sneak of the money grin the courage of the calcium

The balls on the son of a noble someone
The aging wilting stages summed
The ills and ales of the undying painting
The butler´s secret untold and debilitating

And the grave came dropping down out of a two piece drone
Crashing into our satin chapped laps a scream and a moan
flecks of dirt and worm and the shape of some old leather skin
Like unreadable pages of pillaged cavern scripture

All those remains of courage
waiting to be relocated under a concrete cross
With some sense of class nostalgia and righteousness
and maybe a not so stately windbeaten cypress

And the first wrinkles spread upon the face
Greeting us more merrily than youth ever could
Fingernails digging into the edge of the building
scratching as muscle gives way

Age wear and tear, joints grumpy 
Those bones still seem to crumble
Everytime we pick them up to save them
placing them back into that grave then

That second hand cash register
The mysteries of the world inside there
Hidden between the digits white and grey
And under the checks in the funeral tray

The lost treasure that the faithful ambitious
have yet to dig up for their brag zone
half a map and a rusted compass
A bag of brave bones just looking for a home