Smooth Newts

The street where I live

is a Machu Picchu row of skips,

scattered with antimatter.

Escarpments of wooden chip forks

and plastic shards of blue bank biros;

a plague of Blue Rats,

scurrying around in pressed tin cans

while a blue-armed King Tat lies in estate

in a tomb of multi-coloured loom bands.

 

 

They come in shiny boots and big-breasted suits,

trying to put their hands on my smooth newts,

remove my foundations and pull up my roots.

 

Encroaching on my face.

Broaching my unique place

with their ubiquitous, lifeless life styling;

their free and easy

sleazy weasel speak.

 

They say:

Everywhere must look the same.

Everywhere must feel the same.

Everyone must sound the same.

Everyone must act the same.

Everyone and everything

must be the same as they've always been.

Safety in anonymity.

Safety in numbers.

No time or place for

individual embuggerance.

 

 

I reply:

I've had an eyeful

of your municipal masturbation.

I spit like a cobra

on your planning application.

 

B.R. 01/03/2015

 

 

Oh Gussie, how right you are...