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Out of Towners

I’d be grateful if you write to me
Delirious if it’s out in full
Your sharks tailgate up and down Wall Street
Babbling about the war, forced to drive a Mule
In National Geographic society disguise
They point to good Samaritans stripped down by tourists
But they have other primary interests
Running short of time to persevere with the wise

Fourth market in and out traders play in Hell’s kitchen
With tombstone day sleepers and raiders in the pit
They all live alone rebuilding models of the towers
Down by the rivers dark full of flowers on Montague street
Where the immigrants never sleep but are always kind
Ignoring vagrant policemen dressed in scarlet
Wearing out your borrowed head to stop them going blind
Eating out at restaurants where they never run out of wine
Listening to Romeo moaning at the grave of Juliet
And fishermen cooking up a storm, all they catch is Time

On Bleeker Street the Last Poets are underneath the lamp-post
They don’t need to go to see the circus
Where the tightrope walker’s hands are tied
Siamese cats on a hot tin roof show them where it’s at
Passing time is their religion and the politics within
Dealing hands of shuffled suffering is about their only sin
While the Pied Piper is still heard within the ratrace choir
But is bent out of shape and locked up in the sewer
And Hamlet lays wasted in the cathedral cafe
Wearing out cowboy hats and umbrellas
Knowing there is no delight in him but that the Castle is secure
Day dreaming about the sisters of mercy
Falling through the cracks in the side walk
Having most recently risen and retired
While the Goths took the telephone box which librarians lit
Watched by a bird on the wire
Leaving japanese photographers to be left in charge
Of those elected by indifference to rule
Distracted by the flower ladies destroying the Name of the Rose
After they ran out of fuel
But what’s really going down in Chinatown?
The Mafia holds a full house enticing the joker to knit
And sleeping dogs lie in bed awake, faces don’t seem to fit

Sorrow is well contained down on Cannery Row
Stella has no desire to work with anyone she knows
Mother Teresa is returning to blood and vomit on the tracks
Where the sun is invaded and the mail trains shunt
And Factory girls are invisible with no direction home
The wind howls wolf and the rain much ado about nothing
I better get married soon, before the moon disappears with the ring

Folsom prison is now reclocated on the waterfront
Winter leaves are restless, bread cast upon the water
Has disappeared up Greensleeves
Barrabas just released back onto the antiquated streets
Passing Jesse James held up in line outside the World Bank
Crucified at 3 oclock when the teller just says thanks
While Insurance Men are hosed down repeatedly inside their open cells
By Superman fleeting, handing out ration cards and wedding bells
To the stolen generation, finally permitting stillborn children to dream

The United Nations is set for business inside the Coliseum
Uncle Tom’s Cabin moved into the city and painted white
Sleeping beauty lives parallel lives in the house of usher
Shifting rooms in the dead of night
Gnostic punks argue the Antichrist in the Fight club
Where thieves cry freedom, praying for the death of God
And St Francis seduced by morality has rejoined the Inquisition
With Black Maria now beating the Song of Solomon into an iron rod

It’s Good Friday today and the only highway open out of town
Is full of the finest senseless riders
Apparently you’re still wanted dead or alive but the signs are all hit and miss
Pinnochio doesn’t believe in telling lies, in him passers by don’t confide
Peter Pan is hitch-hiking along with John the Baptist
Staring down the Lord of the Rings, who was preparing to kiss
Heading for the lost city of angels to learn which way to fish
But little boy lost is slight, born on Febuary 29
Noone hears his voice, even when he sings
He found dignity taking cover behind a burning bush
Him and mona lisa of the north country fair
Ae still the only names mentioned in the Book of Longing
Buried deep inide Schindler’s decommissioned List
While the sign on the back of my frontdoor just says push

Martin Luther nurtures weeds on underground trails of justice
Leaving behind his luggage emptied of excess
Strewn along the crooked road to the station of the worldly wise
Ignoring critics brooding on the windy city beaches
Given license to confuse, always on the other side
While the beaten prophet is always on the road
He keeps on talking to anyone he thinks he might have known
Everytime he stops to unload
The prodigal son signs eagerly on the dotted line
He doesn’t believe in bearing time and lets the cup slide
Consuming the flesh of old Tom Joad
Just along for the ride
While Weathermen watch safely from the lighthouse
Paying a heavy price to steel themselves
From all Deadman walking feels
In mime they whispered something to me
But I know there’s no place to hide
And quiet men expect the wind to die
Underneath the blood red sky

Up in housing commission subcity on the hill
The last supper had to be postponed
Villagers already have their fill
And refugees can’t be left alone
The mothers of reinvention freak out
They found the Raven chasing the rain
Rebel without a cause looking for applause
In the Highlands, shepherds discovering skulls
And the birds are insane
But it seems just like a freeze out
Everyone looks and sounds much the same
Windmills are on trial
And experienced children die quickly
After crying for awhile

While TinTin is in Vietnam
Fighting for the Taliban
Tin soldiers are on leave in the St James Hotel
But the hallways are crowded
Janitors learning how to spell
And nurses nothing left to give
While the devil’s in the church house drowning in the pool
Tired of the flesh in the room without a view
And there is no-one left down on Rue Morgue Avenue
To investigate the strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Except your magazine friends who all just fold at the end

Like a thief on guard, love is outside the city limits
Reloading flaming arrows with glass gloves that will not fit
Before the sunset, some fine young handsome man folds his arms
After setting the alarm in the house where no body lives
And it seems like only yesterday I caught the one that got away
Last time I saw you, you got carried away
Before a selective audience on Lower Broadway
You cried that everything you ever did was a sin
But somehow just got sieved
And now I really do have nothing left to say
But I always wake up so I guess I’m supposed to live

Out of Towners

hudson

Kingston Heights, New Zealand

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poem poetry

Artwork Comments

  • Lisa  Jewell
  • hudson
  • hudson
  • Lisa  Jewell
  • hudson
  • hudson
  • Lisa  Jewell
  • Lisa  Jewell
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