Slowly there’s a scene that celebrates itself,
holds high office of shame, shoplifts grace
from grocery stores and tomorrow’s tin can mess.
It’s a scene standing in pride, unfazed by the murmuring
strong-styled neighbourhood
believed
to be energized out of concentrated flowerpots.
The suburb sprawl is a basement of employment
hopes, like Monday walks looking for dream pop
and bizarre poetry recitals
along the pavement.
Looking for friends who musically trepanned themselves
with shadows of 1994? Insecure shoes often
obscuring the walls, the sonata of chemicals likens
heads to garage tires you’ve spared for cool
household principles. I bet you look down,
look down so hard to catch the open light
unfurling, like a beef falafel surprising
schoolchildren from Bandra, Mumbai
I earn a living by re-counting poetic lines
and make them smell of cardamom.
Carton-shroud livelihood makes a statement.
To live comfortably is to fall in love
with euphoria: 100%. Sweetheart of lies—
all right you pay my fines
as I’m down on my knees to defend
my eighth-month research on the theory
of shoegaze and how hair cascades
from a culture of unpredictable weather
sweated for heaven and death wishes. And if
it’s going to be the last time you cut your losses,
stomach the sound of distortion pedals,
I’d party up again
and call friends of friends of friends
‘till no grass is spotted
at the edge of the tarmac.
