Caustic Soda Bound To The Connection
The sun had just sunk beyone any Melburnians line of
vision, leaving the sky a sick, grey orange and fading.
And fading . . . Small, even greyer blocks clutter this
littered landscape smouldering like a dying fire. The
bridge descends into the ask to be lost amongst the man
made misery. Built out of want? Or out of greed? Westgate
Bridge, were you built out of need? I ride this
connection. I dont like what I see. I always swore I was
going to bypass it all. And now look at me yeah Im lost
in it. Heres your jacket. Heres your task. Heres your
payslip for which you worked so hard. Heres a life that
so many people wanted you to avoid. Avoid, avoid, avoid.
Well, I think I found a reason why punk accepts success
(yeah right). Yeah, I can see what a tragedy living for
the weekend really is when all that I remember of Sunday
morning is yawning. 8am on that Sunday and I haven't even
sobered up yet. And it was raining . . . But it doesnt
just rain here, no. The atmosphere has a grudge to hold
all its own. And it shows on the faces of those who work,
rest and breathe. And its arm has grown long indeed. Even
now it reaches out and is coldly touching me. Im not so
far away from where that bridge first hits the ground.
