Post apocalyptic balcony number 13

At first,
Bass vibration from the wall.
Then a voice,
Voices.

“Bitch”
“You ain’t tagged proper, hear bitch”
“Announce, bitch.  The fuck”

Boot, head, back of head wall.
A muffled fog.
Kid Carl, “No, N…”
Boot, stomach.
Boot, chest.
Boot, temple, head pavement.
Boot, stomach.
“Announce, bitch”
“Intentions, bitch”
Boot, Boot, Boot…
Raining pain fades him.
Clouds, a lost mothers arms.

A confident voice,
A different voice.
The husky voice.
A voice saying, “no”.
The voice of an angel.

Just a kid,
In a bed.
Hurting, like never before.

“A cup of tea my child.” The husky voice of an angle.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 12

Kid Carl he stands,
And walks,
In a direction,
Away,
From Mong Kok,
Away from all he knows.
To Sha Tin.

The road a ribbon
Revolves under his feet.
The peripheral mountains pass by,
Amah Rock, unmanned tonight,
Observes in silent tears.

His chemically empty legs
Move like solid wooden trunks.
Each step a desperate step
To somewhere afresh.

The white lines move on
Rhythmically slow.

Mountains move by
Offering little comfort,
A silhouette against
City illuminated sky.

City lights become no nearer.

Soon The Blocks begin to pass by.
With Scattered lights.
Heads turn away;
And feet follow away.

A gentle fizzing light,
A low bass hum,
Aside,
A wall unlit by broken
Lamp
Offers a place to slump.

(the gentle fizzing light of the lazy orchid)

Post apocalyptic balcony number 11

Can't complain I guess
Brings in the dollar
Pays for the happy times
With the happy times
Everything else fades

A few of them get physical
Not in the pleasure sense
Black eyes
Bleeding arse hole
Happy times to come

Not really big enough
To fight back
Just take it
Money thrown in face
Black out I guess

Met this guy, last week
Friendly like
Neighbor from floor above
Might tout for johns
But Real life – not into it.

This guy, maybe a friend
Brought me left over dinner
For the microwave
Don't have one though
Ate it cold – alright, better than normal

Next day, he came
Ask for the Tupperware
Hard to get these days
Had a wife in tow
He said to me

Kid, Son,
Want a different job
Want less internal bleeding
Doesn't have to be this way
I get the feeling he may be right.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 10

Scattered fragments
of unnecessary wounds
lacerate the air
Around KidCarl's world
Curled in a naked wheel arch
Throbbing reality nightmare
Awakened to the world
of violence
and lack of compromise.

The slashing
and the stabbing
and the dying
slows down

as people limp
away
shouting
territorial claims
to the bare walls of the tunnel

maybe to the wounded
to the dead
to the next time

KidCarl
almost shacking
maybe so
just does not know anymore

Please the husky voice of our angel.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 9

Tunnel walls focus
To Enlarging
Running
People

Reality breathing close
as life stutters
a quick dash people;
metal will scrape

brooding, echoing
resonant
cries
Sonic waves colliding

before flesh
and metal come together
and screams hint at
loss, regret, honor or victory

screams of silent dead faces
tarmac comfort
in a cool cave like forgotten tunnel
blades move on

muscles tensed,
beads of sweat or blood
mixed in orange sodium gloom
a blade moves across a throat

no pause for a light hearted jingle
KidCarl was bleeding not dying
curled in an empty truck wheel arch
hands protecting ears from death rattle melody

Mong Kok boys
and ShaTin girls.
The remaining
leave to where they came from
Agro4 and adrenaline drained
Blood congealing
Hatred blossoming.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 7

Wrapped in enigma,
They follow
The Siamese Psychopaths

They jump rusted
car skeletons.
Together
Choreographed
Hunting

Chasing
the white line
highway

Running towards
Lion rock tunnel
Pumped
with Agro4
The Chemist's new
ultra violent drug.

The world was small
focused to tarmac
fight and death.

It's all about blades
sharpened for blood
death weapons
tools of war

Running towards
the dark arch of the tunnel
the battle ground
mid way under a mountain

A mountain
That separates two.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 6

Rain drops
fall through
orange light

The ink which
circles wanted adds
runs

Inked tears
which could be
Brushed into a swan
and fly away

Blocked drains
Bubble
Like a shit souffle

Sheltering under a ledge
With a neon noodle sign
Flickering blue
like a fly trap

Watching the rain
falling
stippling
and puddling.

Just waiting for someone to come.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 5

She hoped,
Her children,
Had Heard her voice.
Tonight, of all nights -her birthday.

At the top
Of Tai Mo Shan
Mary, in her enclave
Speaking free.

The rusting
Radio transmitter
Gaffa taped to
An old observatory golf ball.

Temperature 34
humidity 78
typhoon level 3
impending storm

She hoped
They'd listen.
But, so many
had not.

So many had died
stabbed
shot
dead now.

The young bunch
the lost bunch
the violent bunch
the dreams that drained into soil.

She hope the beats
the liquid base
had changed
a few thoughts.

In the post disaster world
Not many chances
rise
Not many dreams evolve.

Maybe today would be new.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 4

Down at The Lazy Orchid
Base flowed like mercury.
Emma sat, eyes of fire
Staring back from
Vodka shot meniscus.

The sparse drum beat
Indicates an architecture
To the liquidity
Her finger's
Tapped pensive

Inside The Lazy Orchid
Bare concrete
Punctuated with rusting re bar
Sound systems giving
Harsh lines living movement.

Bar man Dave
Water's Bar plant Marge
Laconic as always
No judgment
No questions

The base tightens
Emma's slices a slither of lemon
With a clever
And twists the three drops
Into the vodka

The rest of them
The Shatin Girls
Walk in.
Like a wake behind
Tinky and Winky.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 3

Wrinkled faces, caught by time
Push hawker carts
Slow shouting procession
The smell of noodles
Chicken stock, vinegar and soy.
Steam locomotion
Keep off the floor
The smell of rotting garbage
Sewage and sweat
Olds lie homeless
Stepped over by youth.

Thronging masses
Packed tight like legends
Tell of salmon.

Street level, forgotten level, people level
Alive level
Way below enclosed, excluded
Restaurant arcades.
Up above
From surgery come fresh guffaws
Fake as display noodles
Bi weekly sex changes
Make for interesting affairs.
This one guy
Could fuck his own arse
Grafted a pussy
Over his shitter
Cause he liked his dick to smell
In the gym locker room.

Wealth determines height above
Piss stained trousers
Sex menus
And bathtub narcotics.

Dr Jim, pimp and pusher
Looks down and out over his users
Plexiglass separation
Gold watch, two links to big
Falls visually onto hand
Coal black suit
Too crisp to be cheap
Data streamed straight
To his optic nerve
New tech implants
Can't even be found
At Sam Shui Po.

His eyes catch a kid,
New on Nathan Road.
Biking through crowd
Eager.
Dr Jim doesn't know
It's KidCarl's first roll
For the Mong Kok Boys tonight

Post apocalyptic balcony number 2

The evening heat;
making the air feel like cream cheese

Turning a knob through static
Genghis searches for Mary
The husky voice of an angel.
Beamed down from the top of HK

“Down to the people on the street
Coming for you
Your evening voice
Your evening song bird.
We've got beats.
We've got base.
We've got word.
Kept that dial locked children.
Peace out Genghis;
Roll away,
Mong Kok Boys.
Keep it real,
Take it easy:
Take a step back,
Sha Tin Girls
No need for blood
Tinky & Winky
Please not tonight”

Gentle rhythm lifts over
Husky voice
Base blossom speaker
Snare click syncopation
Vocals come and go like
voices imagined in the night.

Tinky & Winky
Siamese psychopaths
Joined at the hip
Smiling silent
drawing each others
knife edge
black battle eye liner.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 1

The Dusk Light
Was Unsettling
Electric Pink.

Barry Lau Sat
Contented
In his genius
In his rocking chair

Not that genius
was appreciated today
but it's cozy
warm memeories comforted

54 stories up
Penthouse Suite
Deserted below
Ram-shackled vegetable garden above

Squash tendrils creeping
like a crown
down to an earth
Flooded for years

A typhoons first breath
Hanging like
a stuttered whisper
Warning

Gently rocking
out the days
until the storm
passed.