lirik lagu doomswayers – legss
the man on the street stood
groping his neck for news
tearing out the sun befallen pages of decline and fall
unconcerned with imminence
the street looked set to burst
taken apart, the man mumbled
and watched the narrator recount it bic by bic [?]
i shook my lead
it is the golden hour for streets like this all over the city
peek effervescent light time open sign showcase
and illuminated fight time before midnight
some stayed fastened to their seats
sheltering from the streets’ impending self detonation
doomswayers
but the man on the street knew where the real fun was happening
out on the strip with a half in half out as in
door staff and bleary idiots
out on the streets doorstep theory became practice
the pavement of football pitch
a gastro turf playing field for the plastic and glass container carriers
but the problem with streets like this is there’s too many bad poems in the way
you’re so caught up with soliloquies in the moment at hand
that you struggle to appreciate the sad drawl of it all
it’s a familiar tale and one bound to be repeated in more bad poems for years to come
of rich men and women and the full bodied pursuit of academic and promiscuous success
of popularity and the promise of great rewards ahead for their ingenuity
seen somehow set apart from their peers
the man on the street grinned, showing no dentures
“i am no fiction,” he said, “i am unmoved
there is no part of me remotely touched by your modern distress
each upturned plank of decking like a landed fish
every silent body a dying shrub
the entire teaching staff of ual standing alert
these are a few of my favorite things”
the street took a deep breath
but the man on the street was not listening to the silence
the silence was too loud, the soundlessness too guilty
like all you can hear is aeroplanes
“the age of the bystander is upon us,” he said
i bowed and shifted my weight
you imagine that everyone else will be losing less than you by not speaking up
best not to get involved
the larger the scale, the easier to accost
but here with your friends out on the street
self*sacrifice doesn’t seem very attractive
i too felt like pretending to be a lost dog
something knowingly fraudulent but inconspicuous
a real dangerous n0body
in this form i would sulk and contaminate the pavements of the street
with my moral simulation slap*about
consumed with all the wretchedness fresh from
purse fingering, ankle dripping, low level crime
i long to be under the underbelly
just above the crutched two legs
a fetch away from my first proper crime
at night i could hear it
orchestras coming out of bloodsucking devils crying in the beams of my flat
i lie there alone
dark and desperate until woken by my favorite son
my sleep resigns me to a constant stabbing
post [?] to angel guilt like all the windows on [?]
and to the interstate leaving their transistor radios on
all of their inequalities, all their different volumes
all else to accost [?] reproachable [?] i’ve ever heard
like a leaf in the wind of a tree i falter
like a tree in the palace of my mind
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