I Stare at Walls

You know,

I stare at walls – a lot

It’s the olivines, pyroxenes,

garnets and feldspar trapped

within the polished slice of history,

pre-history most likely,

buried for billions of years, stifled,

suffocated until the quarry saw

sliced its way through the quartz,

the crystals, the frozen veins,

freeing it, letting it breathe,

letting it see the sunshine.


Now it’s spruced up, sparkling,

polished to a gleam,

a wall of colour looking down

on dull concrete and glass – bitumen,

fibreglass and plastic;

glistening mica, pink and white

feldspar, ruby garnets, green

olivines – and big crystals,

the size of a fridge,

cooled for years, the heaved upwards

or eroded close to the surface.

Perhaps they were in a magma chamber waiting to fly,

but now…

Perhaps life didn’t exist when it died, frozen deep

beneath the surface, but now…


just a harmless adornment on St Georges’ Terrace,

it’s false smooth surface a window into the planet.

A rant…

The alarm kicked me out of bed at 6am,

the dead synapses of my brain reborn,

revived for a brand new day,

take the crash cart away,

it’s not that bad,

just another work day,

another Monday, for fuck’s sake.

Just another waste of time,

some sort of unrecorded crime

that involves me being cooped up

in a room where robots sit

and pretend they give a shit

about the thing they do,

whatever it is they do,

I don’t care,

why should I care,

it’s their own personal nightmare.

I have my own dreams,

no matter how distant they seem

so I’ll join the commuters anyway,

ready for the coming day,

thinking about the play

between want and need,

the balance between greed

and a satisfying life.


And here I am on a Monday morning,

another Monday morning,

turning on the early news

only for some guy to sit there

on the screen just talking at me,

he makes no sense,

talks about celebrities and other disasters,

he just drones on and on,

just sits there wearing a smart suit

together with his plastic smile;

it’s all just superficial style.

So what’s next on the agenda,

oh yes, that’s right,

a sugar-filled excuse for breakfast,

masquerading as something healthy,

just making some corporate junkie wealthy

off the increasing waistline of society.

Eat more shit,

it’s good for you,

it’s tasty, nice,

there’s no price

you have to pay,

at least not immediately,

just put more of it away

and you’ll be fine,

except for that waistline,

that shortness of breath,

the fact that your bringing yourself

closer to an early death.

But what the hell,

everybody else is doing it as well,

except for those fitness and health obsessives,

who strut past on the footpath,

with their tight bodies

flaunting my inadequacies

– bastards.

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