fuck this city

this is the page of the city
a haze of cigarette smokers at doors
a bitumen testament to freeway bruises
a piece of wet paper in the street gloss
there's a taste of cut copper here, salt
a sour mash remedy - a bitumen foundation
a new dead friend - steel in our skins

as we breathe
we breathe in
particles of stars
breathe out
words, inhale ourselves

we all fuck in neat packs
all dominant cultural microphone stance
our avant garde handshake in the light of god
a chemical mortgage
a pre-paid funeral plan
burning dinosaurs
in mountain-tops
as city skylines rise
these granules of once
bold black rock-face
squeezed and flogged into chains
and stains and stories

and i wish i wasn't dead
or regurgitating in today tonight
monstrosities
our corporate slaves
and capital philosophy
all our anarchisms
empty and flake
all our relationships
devoid of taste, our gods
of products, an autotune body

the pages of this city
are digital

(written for Travis - The Ballad of Nick Chopper)