In the street, darling, it's you
The colours of drifting anonymity,
caramelised by its thickness.
Gunk in the eye of sleeping darkness.
You can ignore it or just not notice it
until you can't think straight.
So much so, that you painfully miss it.
Optionally strutting with sliding opticals from passers by.
Optically appetizing, falsifying normality.
Confusing the clearest mind,
slipping in a downward spiral as windowless rooms shine.
The screaming pavement having no respite.
Shop fronts seething with style.
And I'm still anticipating your arrival.
So they told you, "You are beautiful!"
with sneering eyes and peering lips.
There is no escaping it.
You desperately pray to be plain, of no great value.
A nameless face instead of an angel.
Lock yourself in.
Deprivation of light and conversation.
Anonymous in society…
Invading and enticing your mind.
A thrilling mystery in your mindless anxiety.
Stay indoors in a comfy motionless silence.
Weighed down by the sweetness of your paranoid darkness.
People are staring.
Who was I to meet in the street?
Just another vacant victim of drifting anonymity. Trains x3
Way out. No entry
Hot food, Cappuccino, Confectionary
No cash or drugs of addiction
Kept on the premises
Thank you for your co-operation
You must be valid to travel

Silly Man
Silly man, that talks slow, so slow. Slowing down now. Hands unwound. What does silence allow?
He laughs out loud and carries his load. His load of silver round balloons, standing strict and firm beside him in this slow afternoon, The crowd parts to allow him room. This slow man with his silver balloons. Mistaken distance to the tram door. All at once it closes before him. No one yells to tell the driver. His mouth becoming a little wider. Another moment for the sound to be louder but the moment has passed. If only it hadn't gone past so fast. So slow, silly man. To go home. So slow MARTYR TO THE MARKETS
This disheveled trader that walks the lane way smokes and says:
"Look at me!" and pirouettes. My face screws up in the glare and the nightly escapade that made me dance. So, he bends over and lets me photograph. For the first time in days, I laugh out loud. He permits me to sit with him and grin.
"I won't settle down with anyone,
It may be rude but I will admit because
I am at war with myself and women.
I won't be the one to light your cigarette."
Cardboard boxes, beside us, piled. The people move in single file.
"I do not search for a worthy friend
and I do not wholly disagree
to some intimate discourse with you, my dear.
Let us discuss your feelings on charity."
His grey hair is plaited. He laughs at the irony.
"From a highly revered celebrant,
your sermons are but imitations.
I litter them with harsh obscenities
and you pray and implore for my salvation."
The men yell their meaty rates. The fruit and veg compete for a place.
"Your Scriptures of Jesus
to me sound strange
as you ask me to identify
with vulgarity and pain."
Wow, his hands fling,
"I wake all days at 4am"
"Before dawn?" I ask him.
"Is your store near?"
"Too many questions, lady.
I live here. Do you have some change spare?"
I hand it to him and he shuffles off into the busy stream of shoppers, tourists and men who dream.

This train
No littering, no alcohol
No indecent language
No forcing doors
No feet on seats
And don't forget your ticket
Fair evasion is stealing
And please keep silent
Good (evening) passengers
The train is arriving.By the way, how was your day?
On the train,
How was your day?
All that you expected
That a plane didn't explode into your office
And you made it through OK…
On the train,
How was your day?
Pick up the paper and read
About who is going to war
In bold print, double spaced
With a picture of a celebrity.
Just to make sure that your OK
On the train tonight
That you and your TV
Are going to be alright.

1. Actively stare or look away
2. Listen without eye contact
3. Drift into someone else's day
4. Some one else's story hijacked
5. Some will read but pages don't turn
6. Quiet ruffles on the night train
7. Act as if its not your concern
8. Then, go home together again Grandad

We sit upright, taking in the Melbourne sights with a friendly tone of voice guiding us through the city delights and there is a man of 80 with three balloons riding the city circle on a Sunday afternoon.

3 grandchildren. 7, 5 and 2.5 that live 5 minutes away by car. Their parents go out last night and leave them with us. We like them but oh, they crazy. I come here cause the Wednesday paper said they'd open Federation Square. There is thousands of people there. These balloons are for the kids. The gallery? Oh, it's beautiful except for the CRAP on the floor. Beautiful when they finish it off.
He must think stupid girl that asks questions so slow.

Essendon... Essendon? They have a chance. They might win. They may not.

The Docklands, ha! They pay $1,000,000 when the building hasn't even finished. Some people have the money. Colonial Stadium, look at those stairs. Magnificent. The Grand Hotel, it's not so grand. I'd stay at the Casino…To be amongst the people but I never play. I'm on a pension.

This is my stop. Good luck with it all. All the best for your birthday.
And he leaves with two balloons as one had popped.
The City Circle and its delights, rest in the stories of our life in the sights.