Why is it,
When the sky finally smiles,
When fortune finally curtsies,
I’m preparing already for the next gale?
Am I just jaded?
Seeing everything through cynical goggles?
The conductor in my brain disputes,
In his emerald tailcoat he says,
There’s a problem for every solution,
A puzzle box for every paradise,
It can’t be right,
But the argument holds water,
Why is it so hard,
Despite all the evidence in the world,
To trust in a good thing?
In recent times,
I have begun to notice,
There is a black hole in my orbit,
The deepest obsidian,
An anomaly in my wake,
Following me from room to room,
Its event horizon salivates,
Consuming memories and intentions,
Knowledge eaten by the void,
Taking the very words from my mouth,
Morphing every room into a mystery,
Leaving me unsure,
Leaving me deadpan,
But most of all lost in my own demesne.
No matter the hemisphere,
Day or twilight,
The street speaks if you listen,
Soft murmers between your footfalls,
Rumours written upon the cobbles,
The word on the street,
You may see it on your treks,
Errands between A and B,
Hooded prophets in alleys,
Couriers living in cardboard boxes,
There are whispers in the smog,
Warnings or news on the tramline,
Hymns amongst these estates,
An information network unlike any other,
One that transcends states or laws,
It’s the language of cities,
Audible most to those at the bottom.
I once was flying so high,
Outstripping my design parameters,
Too close to too many stars,
But like any Icarus,
I burned up and fell apart,
And now in need of some repairs,
Welding and riveting and sheet metal,
No more rust from past trysts,
A tougher yet more flexile shell,
New polymers and moral fibres fitted,
Bettering the ticking power core,
A new and improved self,
There may be some industrial accidents,
Some bumps along the way,
But I have faith in the undertaking,
I’m not full repaired yet,
But the processes are underway,
Expedited.
There is a city in me,
Streets and towers and lives,
A metropolis of synapses,
Under an electric sky,
It’s a reflection of the dystopias without,
Seen through the churning glass of my mind,
Refashioning the districts,
Chrome and plastic no more,
Ousted by dreams and clouds,
Rust painted over with murals,
Skyscrapers of fey design instead of grey blocks,
Harmony rather than alleyway harm,
I’m trying to see a better home,
It sounds like an urban pipe dream,
But if I cannot better the cities outside,
Then I shall within.
It may be odd to say,
But it’s undeniable,
My soul is for sale to the right patron,
My affection,
My heart,
A paltry yet honest luxury,
Not in financial terms of course,
We’re not talking the flesh market,
But for somebody to proffer sufficient warmth,
Genuine connections,
To be yours and you mine in turn,
To buy me as a partner and not a puppet,
Over the years,
If only to protect my tarnished edges,
After each hurt,
Every time I’ve been left in the cold,
The internal price has inflated,
The shop doors are bolstered,
The years grind by too fast,
If you are to take me for granted,
Or not trade in good faith,
Don’t be shocked or hurt,
When you can no longer afford my soul,
Or are denied service altogether.
The world has its aches and pains,
A hell to some,
But there’s a gentle side,
A rather singular beauty,
The landscapes and flora,
Emotions and struggles,
The saints and the creatures,
What is the Earth but an inspiration?
It gives rise to colour and art,
A catalyst for creative enterprise,
Amplifying the chemistry of artistry,
Succour to the painter or poet,
You see,
When looking through the lens of the world,
Even a neophyte can create a masterpiece.
I am indeed odd,
I am reminded often and harshly,
I speak in polychromatic tongues,
Delivering anecdotes and concepts from left field,
I think differently,
Coming to conclusions outside the mean,
Perhaps it vexes the average soul,
And it is true,
I am unhinged,
Defiantly barmy and weird,
But even in a madman’s eyes,
There is a glimmer of logic,
Don’t confuse my eccentricity for idiocy,
I know what your cupped hands say,
I see the glances and hear the sniggers,
But I’ll dance right through them,
I’m mad,
I’m not stupid,
My grey matter,
Though peculiar in its rationale,
Works as intended.
I’m a merchant like any other,
My stock is simply more dire,
I’m dealing in hollow-points and land grabs,
Peddling grenades and blitzkrieg tactics,
I’m a soldier for hire,
Some would say a monster,
But a man as got to eat,
For the right price,
I’ll holiday in any time zone,
My merchandise is open to all,
A suppressive tide of lead,
Or a shot through an innocent forehead,
It’s a sincere day of work,
With some sin for good measure,
And if I fall,
In some backwater abroad,
None shall mourn for me,
I’m just a tool,
And it’s just another transaction,
At least somebody is getting paid,
War is just business after all.
WorldofHarley 