Bukowski said, "...to roar out of you..."
Easily told by a street stalking man-lion
of beer and spirits-soaked bellicosity.
Try catching another's echo in this grand stadium of self-triumph, now, Buk,
with so many loud souls clamouring to be heard.
The great mountain of relics in the centre of it all.
The palace of homage and pain.
Bathed in the sun's glory that comes through the retractable dome roof.
But only on days of good weather.
The elder profession:
Gaited professors professing rhetoric
from their press-box and secured premium seats.
Selling wares to the trashed,
prostrate and prone.
Knowing that the trite pays,
and the mass contrition is a well vetted intrigue,
worth the salt of the earth and their labour.
Help no one but those you cherish,
*From the nose-bleeds comes a disturbance*
The drive-thru existence is frothing anxiously
for quick treatment and steady navigation.
One that does not satisfy.
It's a fix
It's all a fix.
One big fix.
The fix is in.
For the fix, I sin.
Forge peace through annihilation, I say.
Tear up the wall from the pit.
Rush the man.
1st degree murder and 3rd degree burns, I say.
Teeth and jaws and bloodied flying parts of people.
*In a corner a Fire starts that will not be put out*
A deep and heavy chant rises around the indiscriminate carnage and flame.
It can't be told, who means what.
The eyes about
tell different stories,
want different things,
but chant in unison,
The chaos bays, seeking to subsist.
Its volatile Lion comes to heed the chant.
Quell that no longer will the deep, coarse trepidation be the fear.
That the cold, hard concrete will not wear out the arch in your foot.
That your ivory will not be horrendously cut from you and sold.
So let it roar:
Let it out.
I don't care if you're considered quiet amidst the DEAF-initiates.
Make them hear.