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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 ├Ьbermensch
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.
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
21st 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
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.
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