Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Faces on a power box, Launceston.

My heart lay awake at night
Typical of the idealism
That runs through the veins
Of artists, storytellers, 
And fellers that yell
About things others don't care about
Like fires and liars and the situations
that die hard, try hard 
number crunchers and bean counters
and squawking jocks
Laughing at you from their jeeps
with their radios aloud
some show about statistics
and unrealistic, cannibalistic 
fountainhead murder of altruism 
and atavistic goals set forth by men
who care about their moralistic goals
benchmarks of reason and judgement
they bequeath to the rest of us
The best of us laden 
by the best of them
This story unfolds like a rug
A broken record
the needle in the haystack
Is the change we hope for
But never find
Our courage, mocked and joked
like a clown in an upside down
circus, with dancing bears and a trapeze
They are pleased to announce 
the death of your salesman
your brother, your dream
All we can do is write on walls
walk the halls
Hope we don't fall
so far, we cannot get up
With any luck
We can stand up straight
And get in the face
with creativity, absurdity
and military, pacifistic serenity. 

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