Muzeum Scare

Steep park road wall giants
the creeping Sacre Coeur monastry-hotel.
Little piles of sweepings slash residents
like they’ve been there for days.
Lawnmower pitch changes blades,
appearance on the static sexroom monitor,
stuck inside social security tramlines,
X Joe KGB Murphy Borders Bar,
Little david stars everywhere,
in regional brain patterns and
forest city paths,
leading laid back terror
even more morose.

The castle, the shrubs and
the Vietnamese shops.
Different dogs on different levels,
different slavish breeds,
leftover empirical noses up
here the new middle ground
is a high walled republic,
power-down signage syndrome.
Where’s the energy of the high-
street proletariat?  

Burrowed-for signals and
ridiculously steep walls
demand god lawful sediments
of poodle and granny shit,
various treaties in hand
over the toilet
trading creators.
Crapper still now-
with pretend partitions
to protect the invisible,
flat behind curtains &
the sleep forced
divisible wealth source.
Did you ever
Do a sprint run up
the thousand royal steps?
lung humbler & hunger
leaves you begging,
for state blocks of
polished slate, humane objects
of shallowness & introspection,
old workers relief
don’t take their heart
& lungs out,
40 years ishy
wishy thinking of days
today- reality,
frozen food,
empty yoga minds,
endless rolling cling films,
great adapting cronies
down there-
didn’t see a silver servant
converse with this
glazey-eye fat-nosed
10 krown gene vincent,
knacked out genes victim
since the feathers
in your hair
grew back there-
Glams no pockets,
Soviet Rockets,
memoirs & motorbikes,
halfway house postcard
streets- never given in
to floating dignity-lie
dead in some grace-
filled land-fill.
Child-stitched up
encroachment.
Swayed to deathby
brilliant ideas-
when mum’s away,
show us some self respect.
Role model is a doll-model
Sour Nanny don’t talk none
-no parents or teens-
just dyes roots lemon to death.

Cat on the roadside,
gaping jaw maggots
rotting granny’s manuscripts,
pissed itself into a flying car.

Mentally ill woman
behind us all
only exists when she does
makeup & hair,
plays around there
with her station name,
The Muzeum Scare.

Tapping tiles
under the ground while
dislodged members creep out
in a private public freak out.