Gangsta Trails. Poem by Graham Leese

Though the stars look down on you;
Through dark subways, subterranean
Paths dissonance dissects itself in front,
In front of me and I am lone, one with
This no-wind no-brainer of quickstep.

Silence graces me with all its bludgeoned hues
Like waves passing in the depths; the roar
Of traffic; bus passes; crash boom skittle
Creep. The monologues of a glitched fool
Schizophrenically spliced, nurtured by the
Nature of such sprawl. Damned in the suburbs,
Down in dawns muck. Swimming though

The stars look down on you, now quiet
In their rising songs; the sons, daughters
Nieces and priests of intimidated constellations
Left to voyeurism of the sweetest kind;
Deft, swift and voiceless that watch with
A keen honesty. Bushfire journalism.

Fireflies search for mid-flight-emergency
Runway; streetlamps to guide us home
Seven eleven by the stop,
Seven eleven by the stop,
Sirens wail in the distance, sinew men
And leafed women surface
All ripe concentrate drip shoulders
All quick rate shoddy builders engineering
Quick rich schemes;
Themed brothels.

Step
Into
My
Surgery,

Paid upfront and felt left right up and center,
Middlemen busily stuff fresh placenta from
Green refrigerators; suddenly
Drowning in infinity milks, taste of
Mango, wet watermelon.

The dead sea souls travel with you know,
All chit chat and scatter,
Yabber- yabber this that
Whatever. Hoods decapitated
Their owners nowhere to be found,
Burnt Oak a palace for empty stretchers
Contaminated lectures of the violent kind
BRAP BRAP, another’s dead.