Oct 15

Not Yet There

by Brenton Booth

I see the sparrows dying on fence posts
children slaughtered in department stores—
their blood an essential victory—
24 hour newsstands moulding the clay of decades
chants for the honour of long dead gods
art more silent than tears—
this is it:
the big bad sunshine
the words that fall like screaming bricks
the endless season
the prison cell of the soul—
louder than decibels joining a never ending symphony
running through the phone lines of our souls—
old men dying alone and women so afraid of
themselves they spend thousands of dollars
in the pursuit of their perfect selves;
with lips,
     and tits,
as dead as the hearts they please:
I have seen whirlwinds,
                      and tsunamis,
disappear into this silent void:
pensioners eating cat food to survive
while our heroes feed their pets steaks
and have garbage bins as large as bedrooms:
and under it all a laughter,
                                       a tear,
                             a remorse,
of a person history has bastardized as the truth,
                                                                            the voice,
                                                              the only way:
and blood on the walls,
that will never      be       replaced       or      repaired.