Roseneath Street
It's all connected. Alongside the Great Pyramids lies a ghost pyramid of human skulls. We seek conspiracies, secret societies, when written into our streets is the story of stupid fucking slaves.
My street is a rat run. A rat run is a route through residential streets to avoid main road traffic. Speed bumps meant to slow down this traffic have failed, so another bump was dumped on top. A double shot of speed bump. Aggravated drivers fly over and crash down. From early morning trucks and utes loaded with stuff seem to drop out of the sky one after another. Our days start with the angry sound of crashing failure.
I need that sound to wake me up each day, the sound of angry slaves shouting, "Get fucked cunt!" I know these drivers look down on the people in my street. Educated, well read, what could be more loathsome to a driver reduced to hurtling through the inner suburban streets at dawn? Visit a city like Paris. I almost fell to my knees and cried when a child opened a door for me. Here that child would be stopped by it's own reflection in the glass and starve to death.
When I came back from Paris people asked me how I coped with the rude Parisians. Didn't meet any. Even the riot police were considerate of others. When a crowd gathered at the site of an apprehended bag snatcher drama a squad of uniforms hurtled around the corner and I was struck that they looked worried. They were worried that a riot might break out. Here the riot cops chew gum like coke fiends and cannot wait to attack the figments of their tabloid imagination.
What was the tabloid rag in the growing shadow of the pyramids? How were those slaves taught to hate the slaves working on a nearby pyramid? Did the slaves tell themselves stories about their own sensible behaviour? Did they imagine the nearby pyramid was pretentious while their own was a manifestation of the will of the people? What stupid shit did they tell themselves? It can't have been any stupider than a series of speed bumps that magnify rage like my street is a fucking railgun shooting pure hate into my dreams.
My street is a rat run. A rat run is a route through residential streets to avoid main road traffic. Speed bumps meant to slow down this traffic have failed, so another bump was dumped on top. A double shot of speed bump. Aggravated drivers fly over and crash down. From early morning trucks and utes loaded with stuff seem to drop out of the sky one after another. Our days start with the angry sound of crashing failure.
I need that sound to wake me up each day, the sound of angry slaves shouting, "Get fucked cunt!" I know these drivers look down on the people in my street. Educated, well read, what could be more loathsome to a driver reduced to hurtling through the inner suburban streets at dawn? Visit a city like Paris. I almost fell to my knees and cried when a child opened a door for me. Here that child would be stopped by it's own reflection in the glass and starve to death.
When I came back from Paris people asked me how I coped with the rude Parisians. Didn't meet any. Even the riot police were considerate of others. When a crowd gathered at the site of an apprehended bag snatcher drama a squad of uniforms hurtled around the corner and I was struck that they looked worried. They were worried that a riot might break out. Here the riot cops chew gum like coke fiends and cannot wait to attack the figments of their tabloid imagination.
What was the tabloid rag in the growing shadow of the pyramids? How were those slaves taught to hate the slaves working on a nearby pyramid? Did the slaves tell themselves stories about their own sensible behaviour? Did they imagine the nearby pyramid was pretentious while their own was a manifestation of the will of the people? What stupid shit did they tell themselves? It can't have been any stupider than a series of speed bumps that magnify rage like my street is a fucking railgun shooting pure hate into my dreams.
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