Love Letter to the City

Photos, Words

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Sun comes up over city lights.
Street urchins devoured the night.

One person peering out the window sees
another person doing the same
five meters away
yet we’ll never speak to each other
or know each other’s names…
probably.

The city scape isn’t daunting
like the desolating landscape of the country.
In both places though,
the sunrises are lovely.

Life’s a treat.
Let’s go out and wander the streets,
find some decent eats,
dodge the street sweepers,
say hello to the street sleepers,
never know who you might meet.

However many million men, women and children,
life can be resilient
in the heart of the city.
I dreamt that I was here
walking down pavements and alleys,
writing in hideaway cafes,
making myself happy

.

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Scibble Extracts

Words

A collection of extracts from my journal over these past absent weeks.

12 May:
Second thoughts are curses
Quirky perks disperse with stress,
What’s worse?
An empty lesson or an empty purse?

14 May:
They talk like I’m not here,
not near,
not clear;
a testimony to the idea
that I might be just a little bit weird
and when I talk it’s to an empty room,
a looming truth so what’s the use
of singing to their tune?

16 May:
The landscape’s curling line
echoes my learning state of mind.
The heartbeat of the land,
a sublime stroke by a genius hand.

17 May:
Talking shit again.
It’s well inended, but it’s not making me any friends
so let’s put it to an end and write
something worth something

I got nothing.

18 May:
Feels like I’m fracking in my own mind,
tunneling for diamonds like its a fucking mine

20 May:
I look around and see nobody
because I am the time waster
I am the great procrastinator
I am the perpetrator of my perceived failure.

28 May:
Erase the mistakes
with better choices and a new set of brakes.
Flaky rat race,
and you’ve got shit on your face.
I can’t replace a single piece of time that I’ve wasted.
A lot of us chase our tails
holding back to avoid a fail,
wailing wind gone out of our sails

1 June:
Goodness gracious
Look at all those blank spaces!
Left behind by righteous faces
who’s good graces are crumbs;
who’s crooked thumbs
numbly fire tasers at the cultured ones.

2 June:
A giant cheeky moon plays peekaboo
Shining bright along the hilline
Dark green contrast on a moody blue

6 June:
I’m still alive with a chance to resist loudly,
resist proudly.

7 June:
Satire is dead
and those machines have still got to be fed.
Living in dread of the block heads.
We are the children
of an inbred fictional debt,
cold steel of invisible chains,
the culture of blame in the age of No Regrets

11 June:
Mushroom fumes in stuffy rooms,
purple stain from acid rain.
Doomsday news courtesy of plumes,
pass off blame and ways to complain.

12 June:
A divine horizon stole my breath
but it’s a guess how long the land has left.

14 June:
Sucking life like a ring wraith
closing in on the spaces
of more vulnerable faces
trying to take more time but time doesn’t give,
it takes.

Vanquished

Words

And it’s not because I don’t believe that you’ve never felt this
Or that I believe I’m the only one that’s in this
But who are you to hijack my pain?
To squelch across the floor of my beliefs
And try to show me that you’ve got this

Because you haven’t
And neither do I
And how do I move on from something so
Untouchable
So unbelievably vanquished
And sodden
I’m not the downtrodden
I don’t believe I will be down here forever

So pick yourself up and move on
Say motherfucker who are you
This is my life
And my beliefs in this trial are what I am
And so I stand
And here I am

Not only to become a man
Or a woman
But a person whose place in this universe isn’t predestined by someone else’s beliefs
But my own

I am who I am
And right now I stand here to tell you this
This is your life
Don’t let anybody say that you’re not right for this
Or that you can’t do what you want to do
cause its up to you

And I believe that
We are who we are
Never mind who they are
I stand alone as myself
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.

-Steph

Off the Page

Words

R7

Grey tones echo and grow.
Sometimes it seemed there wasn’t that much to know.
But the day glo that screams hello,
and the conscience debate, to and fro,
to and fro,
fabricated alone.

Fingertips to the sky, hinge from the waist, touch your toes.
Gaze off the tip of your nose.
Breathe through the adversity, hurdle the foes,
try to downplay the blows
and who knows?
Maybe we’ll float away from those woes.

I wrote this while thinking of a friend back home who is having a shit time ❤

 

Defect Notion (wordplay)

Words

Searching this concept of “progression”
a benign veil disguise of inherited obsession,
the professional possession to find human perfection.

As we go in that direction
are we missing the lesson? That maybe,
without confession, without dissection of our methods, we risk:
self-assassination,
annihilation,
devastation,
not to mention humiliation;
sacrificing evolution in the name of
systems and weapons.

Does anyone get this?
Where does it end? The need to defend
the ways in which we have condemned
too many brothers, sisters, strangers and friends
so that we can all pretend our lives are something more
than merely a means to an end.

We got caught up.
Distractions; reactions to sums, fractions
and those irregular subtractions.
We lost all the facts but somehow found all the actions,
solutions and answers
to everyone else’s problems,
but when they try to help themselves, we always try to stop them.

What questions could we answer?
Homelessness? Displacement? Cancer?
Take a glance at their reality and see that
there is no reprieve
from realities like these.

See that as we dance upon the graves of chance,
we steam towards our destiny
(whatever that might be).

Breathe.
Feel peace.
Turn off the mind and be free.

An archive of perspectives can tell us everything,
like that hating brings more hate in:
a state of disgrace for the human being;
a self-imposed mind-fuck to keep the hate
feeding, and breeding.
With each generation re-seeding the seething,
expanding with oppression demanding,
riding itself to the end of the line
starting again only to redefine
the maligned cycle that keeps it standing.

And I’ve digressed; this didn’t start as a confession
to frustration,
or lack of elation for the human condition.
Not even as a hot wind of my own depression;
but as a note on the defect notion
of progression.

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