On the hill, looking down, white totemic characters stand in the breeze well beyond a real estate wheeze, where land, parcelled in neat quadrants Has places for souvenirs, sheen, and smoking: The next commercial tingle Everywhere the street reeks of dysfunctional dreams with souls transformed and spider men weaving their trade of postures Tourists snap, the young, tarted up, congregate in claustrophobic holes seeking the next fuck the next trip the next nonchalantly discarded two wheeler lying on the sidewalk Sometimes falling, constellations afar, In tents or sprawled unconscious on concrete alongside handprints of now and ancestors blurring in a fabricated merry-go-round With personality tests and macabre museums Celebrating lives lighting a silver screen Offering a quick solution a buzz a life direction Alongside holes dispensing black liquid Regurgitating plastic galore, stuffed into trash And a gong of superiority simpers and Angels are a long way off How would those long departed From the undulating hills View the bittersweet steamroller progress? Like imagined, brilliant washing Put out to dry, tumbling, Wafting always
