Ken Trimble #14 Piss town

The view from Buddha's window
was all light,
below two men sitting on a rock,
shot up.

Young schoolgirls skipped by
oblivious to the damage done,
they just wanted the tram.

All around was the sound of a
city exploding into night,
the cool delivered ones
wanting something of the ghost
that is.

Fitzroy, town of hipsters, junkies,
 alcoholic blaring from Spain,
with jazz its underbelly
whore.

Miles played as a background
score to keep the patrons
entertained.

Buddha watched it all,
the gang fights over at the
high-rise flats where every
nation on earth staked its
claim of terror.

The side street rooming houses
with its dog box rooms alongside
the newness of the up and coming.
Everyone wanted a piece.

At night Buddha saw his brethren
the Gyuto monks chanting from
inside the whale their hypnotic groan
while the people stared.

And someone was reciting poetry
strung out wide eyed to the group
of outsiders who came in to feel the vibe.

Buddha sat on his windowsill
a stone statue a wounded icon of the lost
in the middle of piss town.