posted on June 15, 2013 at 8:28 pm
quiescent umbrage

quiescent umbrage

sydney is a woman down by the shore

old and beautiful always young

snorting up lines of traffic and riders

a bitching city wriggling across high rise lands capes

drugged up on saturday night she staggers her arrival

dressed in red clouds and mature grey sky

she shows a lot of leg

she carouses in bars with jacks of all trades

she kneels in temples of masters of zen

mocking the mourners in some gaudy flash

she toasts the idiots on their yachts with a slap of cold spray

knocking at yer door screaming come out you bastard

you boring old bastard

there are dances and card games and orgies and films

there are cafes and theatres there are gardens and rooms

there are shows about anything you ever thought of

man its pulsating out there with intrigue and strife

man the helicopters whirl in

the hoodlums drive up

the tattoo parlour illustratin’ illustratin’ yer skin

the needles are banging

the pipes are all smoking

the coppers take you down with a ‘lectric gun

sydney come here you tipsy old dear

some of these people still out there surfing

the dirty old sharks all hungry confused

the lovely trails someone has left in the sky..how thoughtful..!?

sydney some of your streets are radiant i feel them even here in my tower

sydney in the tunnels and markets and in the marginal fringes

in developments that havent caught on

and traditional federation

and in alleys in the city and in bars in the cross

sydney you know i tried hard to leave you

i see through your lies oh please tell me em again

i close my eyes deep in the opera house

i stood on a stage with a nearly a hundred players

the words that i sang sydney were all of them for you

you fucking should have listen you stubborn little fool

you could have had me again that night

with yourĀ fingers of boulevards

and your bridges of love

with your harbouring suspicious evenings

and you give em the quays and you give em rose bay

where mansions rush down to the water

and you give em the reflections in the black surface of moon

and the fluorescent flash of your own clowns camera

and in some chat up meat market you meet your make-up girl

oh hi honey did i ever tellya that you look so sweet?

oh no why thank you i am a big fan of sydney too!

you hear that sydney ?

shall we 3 go back to my tower on your eastern shores

i have certainly by now procured the wherewithal

but first sydney thinks of herself

her sprawling self over acres of paradises and slag heaps

swamps and museums and parties in houses

sydney drags us to parties in balmain and rozelle

we eat a at place and king street turns into a princes highway

hang on a second

sydney hails a cab

she dials a number

the dealers arrive

a guy with the stuff that makes you so white

the woman with the stuff that makes you so black

the old guy who brings the stuff that turns you up loud

the young girl with the stuff that turns you down soft

we 3 of us slurping the champers

a single span bridge sydney sniffs

fuck you… aint it the biggest one in the whole world?

the make up girl giggles and draws in the condensation

sydneys limos speed through the night

carrying visitors and legators hither and fro

and back round the corner for a bitter you know whatski

hey driver take us down to the wharves

we wanna spend a fortune and sample everything

through warehouse districts just like in batman

where crims rent huge spaces to rehearse their capers

dressed in the demi monde of the times

strange tight pants all baggy at the crotchet

and wooly hats or something like that

we smoke cigarettes out front of some hotel

sydney acts as if she is immortal

as if she will never die

but no she can not keep up this pace forever

one day she will probably fall because of her mouth

of course her name might get changed

her houses knocked down

but by then all of us here would have reincarnated

in possible futures where sydney might wander

in ornate paths

in ordinary miracles coincidences seem to align

we interrupt our ride again and again

tolls are deducted by invisible hands in your vault

where they stash your imaginary cash in binary rows

make up girl calls out to friends having a drink and a catch up

i smile as i dial up a pizza and an escort

to escort me through this forest of nescience

in arbours of temptation

out the back in the courtyards

under the lights down at the station

the coppers jeer at ya through your plexiglass cage

in the hospital the overdoses stack up in casualty

they dropping like flies in pubs in the northern beaches

the cars are crashing out there in sydneys cold night

the wives are nagging the husbands are angry

the ambulance driver has seen everything

hes seen the gash in the sides of night

hes seen the fight between drunken despair

hes sewn up the lungs of some fractured morning

and laughed as the first surfer entered the sea

a querulous priest lambasting a flock

never mind the guy they sent round to see ya

never mind the thousand bucks that he owed ya

never mind the finicky twit at the counter

who loses his temper and loses your keys

never mind the guy in the taxi who stops and he starts

i’m feeling quite sick but he just cant drive

never mind all the chlorine in the pool at the makeup girls flat

shes got an apartment looking over the harbour

she dives in her pool with sydney around her

they frolic and splash and gambol and splurge

come on in they say divesting my astral garments

come in says sydney i know that you love me

overlooking my bad sides

my brutal savage history she says

and all of my boyfriends they all end up dead

and all of my rivals although i have none

with my golden streets and my white city ‘scapers

with my murderous secrets twined with moments of peace

oh yes come in and join us

but the traffic is stuck on this side of the bridge

some accident lights up the night like a xmas twee

the elegant waste of evenings like these

the rush of the shot the crack of the whip

the pale naked bodies all seen inner mirror

the crumbling cake you find in her fridge

like a season of folly crammed into an hour

the messages flicker as you monetize your page

and the likes and dislikes build up in your filter

suddenly you shout out some lyrics into the dark

as you stand all alone in make up girls kitchen

where the glamourous cockroaches nibble the brie

where the postcards have faded in 2 centuries mornings

where the hues and the cries are muted or gone

and you help yourself to some terreys chocolate orange

fuck it you cant be bothered to ask

in the morning the girl has gone

but sydney is there

sleeping quietly in the gathering rays

i must be derailed you think to yourself

and then

that thought

it too has gone

 

 

 

 

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