Posts Tagged ‘conformity’

weirdo

 

Here’s to the wild ones, the weird ones
Who take a crap on the desk at Centrelink with a shit-eating grimace on their faces and demand to be addressed as Jesus Christ
Who go wild on whiskey or whatever and run amuck through the back-alleys and cheap boarding houses of Perth
Who polish their guts with bourbon and stoke their tobacco fires constantly
Who cry out against that military industrial mind-fuck- the consumerist gobbledegook of advertising
Who always know where to get good drugs and how to avoid getting ripped off by other, meaner freaks
Who want to bring down capitalism and Nickleback with a single gesture of flagrant love
Who when captured by the pigs paint a Sistine Chapel of shit all over their cells and gibber like gibbons
Who keep detailed records of the worldwide conspiracy of Masons to achieve world domination by writing on the insides of gum wrappers
Who write their lives all over the public walls of the city in murals that would scare a representative member of society- whatever that is
Who ricochet through late-night hipster bars clad in tattoos and tobacco and get kicked out for questioning the purpose of the universe
Who participate in threesomes with persons of indeterminate gender in the late-night anal darkness
Who plunder the night for kicks and hi-jinks and scare the crap out of the forces of conformity
Who preen and style for fashion darlings in op-shop rags with multiple piercings
As they bless the world, may God bless them all

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Suburbia

Posted: December 12, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

suburbia
Down the identikit suburban streets, looking in the gardens for thistles for my piggies
Bitumen road sliding out into the horizon
How many families in interchangeable brick boxes
Putting food on the table
Paying the bills
Uttering clichés to try to fill the time
Human tape-recorders spewing mundanities
Hypnotised and cauterized by mobile phones and television
Conforming, conforming, conforming
Caring for sticky faced children
Outcome of man and woman enveloping each other for a sweaty moment
Consuming, procreating and dying more every second
Just like the people in the next house
And the house after that
And I should really love all these people
Like Jesus
But it’s not easy

I walk alone
Smoking white ox
Stoned but not stoned enough
Eyeing women who pass me by
With shameful furtive glances
Ocular photographs shuffled off to the wank bank
Never look for long
That’s the secret
Am I sexist?
Am I a sex criminal?
Am I the patriarchy?
I ache for a good woman like a junkie for a shot

This is what Burroughs called the old talking asshole routine
I am the talking asshole