The street roams a colour red, liquid red,
dripping, oozing from the bricks, the mortar,
the cracks in the cement,
turning into rain, raining onto us,
into our pipes, into our drains
into our homes.
The street roam an odd colour, yet familiar to all of us.
Fill this street with people.
You have a riot.
People smoking, walking, running, catching a bus,
they tell people to get fuck themselves,
Not with their minds, with their bodies,
their hands, their mouths, their cocks, their eyes,
their tongues, all the languages, the nether regions,
the brain comes last.
Our police stop search, they probe, abandoning morality,
and consider justice away from the now, old school, dead.
They introduce vices, their own shop brand of criminality,
wants and needs! demanding our
freedom, yet that has already gone.
A man riddled with the germ of suicide and curses the wild street below,
he curses them as he looks down at the ground below, his awaiting Nirvana.
The heart and soul form another reincarnate
from the strawberry yogurt muss of a back alley accident.
A child passes by asking their mother to buy them sweets,
and the mother asks him what he desires, concealing him from the
strawberry mess from that wild street of the world.
Pushing the next generation in the opposite direction,
before soon turning them back towards that red street.