Butterfly pumps padding the sidewalk
In my self-imposed bubble of thoughts.
I can see them; muffled voices mumble
As I trundle along with an unwritten objective,
The rhymes chiming in a jumble of thoughts,
Machiavellian ampu-taunts behind this downward gaze.
Where’s the bloody script?
The ranting’s encrypted and bound in Jezebel’s bra…
‘The trailer’s being towed for a blowjob on Sunset Strip
by a whore who pays her clients with her husband’s credit card’,
While the begging question rolls in with the angry sky,
Just who IS paying for this crap?
As the director spits on my cheek,
Spots polka-dot the pavement, Bambi style,
And a pound is dropped from the left,
Slowing down the reel with a matrix fashioned mind-fuck.
A single glimmer of gold sears through the gloom
Arcing, triumphantly, imposing it’s high pitched clink,
Sending a dozen petty thieves scuttling
With the juggling overspill that vomits down the drain
Before the water soaks through to my toes
And the silence is louder than the tyres hush
And I keep moving as everything shuts
By Kiersty Boon 2009