Disrobing “The Suits”: Poems by Robert Maddox-Harle

Rob Harle

by Robert Maddox_Harle (aka Rob Harle)

City  5:00am

Eerily empty, the city at five am

a “still life” of despair,

the edge of a blue cold mirage

suspended, like purgatory

between false-dawn and dawn.

Greys change to black

then back to grey again,

pushed downwards by the damp draught,

drawn past drab facades

and steely mirror-black glass

reflecting itself reflecting itself,

in the sickly yellow lighting.

The scent of the underground

warm metallic, dusty

stale electric,

rises from the gutter grates

testing the memories of tramps,

those who rode the rail-road

in suits of silk

and careless confidence,

from warm home

to office obsession and back again,

and then - redundancy.

A faint  hum,  hum,  hum

permeates the sacred silence

mysterious and alien

not wholly human,

not merely machine,

the ghost of the city moans,

a disembodied chant

surrounds the monuments,

marvels of human madness.

Silent street sweepers,

caretakers of this shadow world

sweep slowly, the sins

from last night's sacrifice,

sacrifices to love

to lust and longing.

Even the hard-core whores

desperate for a last trick,

leave this monstrous mausoleum

when the last neon flickers.

A black stiletto heal, scarred

wrenched free in hustle

in bondage in a footpath crevice

remains as testimony.

A siren far across the city

screams,

slashing the silence,

in a second all is dead again.

Retail Therapy

the whoredom of retail therapy

becomes a two-edged credit card,

pin or sign

flash or swipe,

mycobacteria economic consumption has,

turned into emphysema.

the radical deconstruction of capitalism is nigh

but till then, shop on.

i desire,

ipod

iphone

ipad

I will dock into my

HD 150cm 1080p LCD TV with,

USB, PVR, PA, Wi-Fi and,

Hi-Fi 7.1 surround sound with,

80cm sub-woofer.

I will colour my world with,

Blu-rays, then,

Bluetooth

my nextG Smartphone to my

GPS geo-locator so,

U can track me on,

Facebook with,

face recognition,

voice recognition,

designer-brand recognition.

i desire to be contactable,

i desire be reachable,

i desire to be exploited as a marketing pawn.

i have completed my dumbing-down debriefing

now my simultaneous use of opposable thumbs

has exceeded even that of my aping ancestors,

I am so happy.

my Android tablet purrs and,

is far more palatable than a Blackberry, so

I am happy,

both transfer every keystroke back to

my Big brother and my Big sister to

build a global data gold mine

I am so happy to be a marketing pawn,

even though the radical deconstruction of capitalism is nigh.

SuperGloss

contemplate it!

the comprehensive catalogue

signifying anything opposed to reality

a glossy brochure really

speaking beyond the sharp image

voices in three colours,

the myths of  a young generation grow

syntactically sharp

only to be replaced in the next second

by more -- Buy More,

set in place powerfully,

by symbols of minds

corrupt, political, SuperGloss

flip it over

register image

flip it over

enterprise capitalism breeds

freelance hedonists,

creates individuals by design

renewed with each flip over.

SuperGloss heads are sharp

SuperGloss solipsism is sharp

Seigel and Shuster’s Superman was soft,

glossy SuperGloss hero

corporate logo <S> of imperialism

Nietzsche’s Übermensch

super sharp, super real Superman

an anti-democratic anarchist

an anti-Christ with attitude

far too sharp for Imperialism’s <S>

the middle classes’ <S> wimp

soft, seductive, sleazy

too scared to slash his shadow

too stupid to wear his underpants

under,
under his slippery tights.

The Colour Of Greed

Paint the colour of greed,

a sickly phosphorescent yellow-green

rising from the foetid waters,

a burning acrid colour – deadly.

More gas wells are drilled,

more corruption fuels more corruption

anonymous investors burn with greed

a yellow-green poison mists over the land

a land in the tremors of dying,

the frogs and lizards long gone.

As a child I drank the water pure,

flowing through forests of energy

in streams through fields of swaying grass.

What do I tell the children?

How would Monet paint the colour of greed?

How do I explain democracy – a deception?

What is majority consensus – a bad joke?

How do I paint the politician's auras tinged with black,

glowing with sickly yellow-green?

Farmers and mothers and greenies – unite,

forging deep connections,

a solidarity for sustainability.

Yet still the yellow-green-black politicians lie

their deceptions the manifestation of cancerous evil,

Dear children - I am so sorry!

Sign of The Beast

The 21^st century icon stood before me

glistening black and chrome

inviting, seductive, sensuous

DC ATM - all cards accepted

Fees Apply.

Security video 24-7 hovers above

guarding the cash-excreting mouth.

The DC ATM is silent,

strategically located

midway between Supermarket and Butcher.

Pet Mince 99¢ a kilo

Hearts – Brains - Kidneys on special

Today Only.

Then - THE SIGN - assaults my eye

clean, crisp and callous,

black letters on white-cold metal

fixed to a filthy drab-grey concrete wall

protecting the cash-excreting mouth.

             No Skateboarding

               No Bike Riding

            No Scooter Riding

                No Loitering

                No Begging

              Thank you – Centre Management

  

No Begging – No Begging!

for whom is this sign intended

the questions begs?

The white middle class consumers?

DC ATM cash grabbers?

Little kids on scooters,

their mums one step behind?

I think not!

Indigenous people come and go

quickly passing the slick black DC ATM,

not looking at the sign

or the filthy drab-grey wall.

A mindless act of cultural vandalism,

has stained the air,

flagrant social discrimination,

stings my saddened eyes.

The Centre Manager

obese and crass,

full of self-importance

in a cheap polyester suit

waddles past

secure in his position of power.

His complacency a deadly trap,

The Wheel is always turning!

Out-Of-Focus

Sliding through a rust-red mud

I edge forward cautiously,

old grass-trees protecting the sandstone hills,

sentinels of antiquity

watch silently as I approach Nimbin.

Too many years ago now,

too many Blue Moons

I fell into a psychotherapeutic destiny,

refugee from a city turned vulture

a cursed betrayal of an idyllic childhood!

But ... still the glorious harbour glistens,

Utzon’s Opera House watches silently

a magnificent sentinel of modernity.

Refugees are welcome in Nimbin!

Bell curves toll for the status quo

the status quo dissolves into ethereal magic

as perception of time ebbs and flows.

The tourists bus in,

wallowing whales belching diesel fumes

a black putrid pollution,

plying the route daily from The Bay to Nimbin.

“I’ve been to Bali”!

“I’ve been to Nimbin too”!

Oh really?

A few more out-of-focus snapshots

the “i” gadgets breed mediocrity

generating billions,

soothing the cocaine habits of the suits

the Wall Street-Silicon Valley opportunists,

sucking the dollars from the mindless masses

like evil-eyed-crows over a road-kill carcass.

Invent new gadgets of distraction

fresh opium for the masses,

be consumed by the consumables

and leave a stinking disfigured corpse

playing a distorted “i” tune.

Ledgers of Creation

Enter into this deep loathsome secret

your anachronistic education cannot save you,

my therapist collapsed into oblivion

as I recited the formula for her,

the equation for nano-genetic-conflation.

The seeds are all in Patent Process

animal DNA is following fast,

precise catalogues of life

Ledgers of Creation owned by the few.

Bank vaults bulge with vulgar obscenity

as plastic wads of worthless cash inflate,

traded on the Stock Exchanges of insanity

where piranhic feeding-frenzy riots daily,

the blood wrested from the Everyman

till only a dry and empty bag of skin remains.

Shylock reigns supreme in this deep secret

with raw blood slopping down his chin

as he devours his every “pound of flesh”.

Devil’s Pulpit

No deconstruction possible,

no access available

the suits have sabotaged the ledgers

with entries written in the blood of the poor.

The Sign of the Beast 666

reigns supreme!

insidious and unrelenting

suppressing the “everyman”

feeding the greed of cunning.

Gates are locked

communication is blocked,

from the pulpit

the carrot dangles always

and

remains always unreachable.

Setu, December 2018