Grab a plant; place it near your nostrils so you can hold your breath. When walking down passages of torment, an entrance to the Black Nazareth. A castle; with walls bleeding hope through its crevices of death. Here the rate of death is not equal but exceeds that of birth. Occult hang spots juxtaposed temples, all construct CITY OF THE DEAD. Brighter thighs beneath street lamps prohibit light so darkness can spread. Deliberately mute preachers so the name God can end.
I’m a child of the spoken junk, suspended at the centre of this gigantic yet clustered city, with tall buildings forever growing like hatred in half siblings. A place were to some floors are ceilings to the ones under. House over the other, your above neighbor steps daily on your dreams.
I say high, she says low and indeed me and her get low. Every time I have a job, just for a cup of sugar she volunteers to blow. The sun dies, then resurrected.
The next morning. I say high, she ignores me since she is already high. Abide by the laws of this town. Last night was just that. And today between us attached are no strings. O CITY OF THE DEAD…
The walking dead, with bandages covering their forever wounded egos, perpetually affected by the unseen issues bruising even when the wind blows. Look at that one, she’s so hot! Please keep your eyes off her if you don’t want flames on your eye brows. Windows; a quick escape way out of life and sometimes are used for bungee jumping. Traffic as magical star fishes rushing to brighten the liquid skies at twilight in the below river banks possess more people with empty pockets but with treasure in their pirated personalities.
I’m sick and well I seek a wheal, drink mother nature’s tears off her fading face. Earth curses the day she gave life to this place. I can’t drink tap water because people tap water by pissing in the dam so evaporation impregnates clouds resulting to rain being a bustard. A fatherless child. Trying daily to find in every man a home by sticking his formless self to their clothes but they quickly get home and tumble dry him off, down the drain cause it rhymes with rain. How heartless.
Everyone here has replaced their hearts with a shiny spherical metal, a coin. Put it in their pockets and witness them bow and become your servants. O CITY OF GOLD…Let the truth unfold, your oblique stories be told, lose your deceiving mask, let people see your eyes; windows to your soul, man left of them are just frames, no glass, your soul has escaped, running chasing wealth of this world. Death forever haunts your inhabitants and die they do. CITY OF THE DEAD
Joburg is a ghost town; with phantoms on acoustics at night hypnotic serenades, expensive lullaby your path to sleep so your tomorrow is already broke. Evoke the lord of stupidity on cross roads cars as ginipiks chasing static carcasses they shake hands with death, it was a mistake the driver did not see me I was in black, yes mistakes do happen, man even mutants with their sign languages sometimes on words they choke. Provoke fallen soldiers, who fell while sitting with their backs on the ground, call squads of kids that replaced their mothers’ roles with the street, forever shouting for help but with God their discreet. Breath in Breath out, they breath the same air since they lungs glued together, sniffing the colorful substance. Death invites them to dinner and come they do. They dead! And promoted to the ghosts that eternally haunt your nights with nights of dead horses running over the king that porn’s his queen in the castle before the bishop. Check mate! You’re dead! CITY OF THE DEAD!
JOBURG MY JOBURG. . . . .
I’m a child of the spoken junk, suspended at the centre of this gigantic yet clustered city, with tall buildings forever growing like hatred in half siblings. A place were to some floors are ceilings to the ones under. House over the other, your above neighbor steps daily on your dreams.
I say high, she says low and indeed me and her get low. Every time I have a job, just for a cup of sugar she volunteers to blow. The sun dies, then resurrected.
The next morning. I say high, she ignores me since she is already high. Abide by the laws of this town. Last night was just that. And today between us attached are no strings. O CITY OF THE DEAD…
The walking dead, with bandages covering their forever wounded egos, perpetually affected by the unseen issues bruising even when the wind blows. Look at that one, she’s so hot! Please keep your eyes off her if you don’t want flames on your eye brows. Windows; a quick escape way out of life and sometimes are used for bungee jumping. Traffic as magical star fishes rushing to brighten the liquid skies at twilight in the below river banks possess more people with empty pockets but with treasure in their pirated personalities.
I’m sick and well I seek a wheal, drink mother nature’s tears off her fading face. Earth curses the day she gave life to this place. I can’t drink tap water because people tap water by pissing in the dam so evaporation impregnates clouds resulting to rain being a bustard. A fatherless child. Trying daily to find in every man a home by sticking his formless self to their clothes but they quickly get home and tumble dry him off, down the drain cause it rhymes with rain. How heartless.
Everyone here has replaced their hearts with a shiny spherical metal, a coin. Put it in their pockets and witness them bow and become your servants. O CITY OF GOLD…Let the truth unfold, your oblique stories be told, lose your deceiving mask, let people see your eyes; windows to your soul, man left of them are just frames, no glass, your soul has escaped, running chasing wealth of this world. Death forever haunts your inhabitants and die they do. CITY OF THE DEAD
Joburg is a ghost town; with phantoms on acoustics at night hypnotic serenades, expensive lullaby your path to sleep so your tomorrow is already broke. Evoke the lord of stupidity on cross roads cars as ginipiks chasing static carcasses they shake hands with death, it was a mistake the driver did not see me I was in black, yes mistakes do happen, man even mutants with their sign languages sometimes on words they choke. Provoke fallen soldiers, who fell while sitting with their backs on the ground, call squads of kids that replaced their mothers’ roles with the street, forever shouting for help but with God their discreet. Breath in Breath out, they breath the same air since they lungs glued together, sniffing the colorful substance. Death invites them to dinner and come they do. They dead! And promoted to the ghosts that eternally haunt your nights with nights of dead horses running over the king that porn’s his queen in the castle before the bishop. Check mate! You’re dead! CITY OF THE DEAD!
JOBURG MY JOBURG. . . . .
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