So a very weird thing happened the other day. The sterile environment of a uni tutorial actually brought out of me some creativity! And I wrote a poem. I liked it so much I decided to share it here, with my one follower, who is probably just a robot. Yay.
It's about Sydney and graffiti. And some meaningful shit in between.
Unfortunate passages, covered in grime
Are lost, but oh to look again,
To see what's sublime!
How can we erase
The graffiti of ages
That has been embedded, engraved
on Sydney's hearts and minds.
The rebels of Redfern
Fighting the Man, his pale skin,
Crippling in the scratched moonlight.
The passengers passing
Through McDonaldtown -
Who gets off, in this godforsaken hole?
A man? A woman? Or some tentacular creature,
Painting the walls
With a thousand limbs at once.
To Newtown
Alive with the smells
of Pad See-Ew and shallot pancake
As MLK stares down,
Pedestrians treading lighter
Under his inquiring gaze.
Take his justice with you
Wherever you travel.
Be not chickens in a coop,
Unfurl your wings and fly,
To Surry Hills.
A small piece on Crown
Paving the way to Oxford -
Not a home for scholars,
But for strippers and sinners,
The sparkling haunts of the night
Luring us to the East.
An ode to hipsterism is this,
Wherefore must we travel to Bondi?!
To Rose Bay, and this auspicious fairy?
We find ourselves at sea...
The air is filled with smells of salt
And quinoa
The monied subaltern grows his beard
South of the coffee bean.
Rabbis and socialites
Mix with ease.
The explosions of Redfern
lack the subtle interior etchings of Five Ways,
Under the Royal's steps.
Beach Road beckons
Like the rippled, waves of Bondi,
But soon the humming centre
Draws us back.
To Darlo, then, doubt you the graffiti here?
Chai lattes and street art do not mix, you say,
I'm afraid I don't agree.
Leafy tress and lonely eyes
Gazing down Liverpool.
Secret haunts and ghostly fingers
Creep up to colour your stroll.
A wander through a garden
A step into Hyde Park,
The grass is cool and free
beneath your feet.
Look up through those green arms and peer through the leaves
As the sunlight waves goodbye
It's time to cross the water
like Jesus
Or just take a ferry for $1.80
And save yourself the time.
Mosman Bay
For retirees? No.
For lovers. Or are they one and the same?
Can there be any more romantic gesture,
Than to carve your lover's name into a tree?
A violent tattoo for its gnarled arm,
Romantic nonetheless.
A fashion begun, no doubt,
By the Heidelburg School,
In between kisses and spasmodic orgies.
Why not? They posed.
Why not indeed?
Life is so very short. Before long,
We are survived only by our etchings
And even then only for a little while.
Long enough to inspire others
To copy, and begin again.
The can of paint makes a tinkling sound,
So tolls a tiny bell.
It beckons to the wild in you,
To make your mark.
There are but three rules -
The first, that it may be beautiful.
Do not inscribe your eternal notch
Without muster or with disdain.
Take pride in your memorial -
Breathe your life into the frame.
Two, choose your place wisely.
Let it soak up your sun.
And last,
Use your freedom.
Seek your hiding spot and turn it
Into an exhibit
Of how you journeyed
And how you, in all your glory,
Arrived.
