Sydney quickly became a petri dish, crowded with the enthusiastic pip-lips, each with a bigger tribal mask of non-chalance. The Thousands, pedestrians, hibernion hangovers, Acid bloggers, they taste like a punch in the nose, the bitter iron blood whose smell fills me like a bureaucrat’s acrid breath.
I’ve found my UV filters on darlinghurst pavements in my dreams, where sometime in the last year, they spangled from the spastic collapse that has been me. I’ve felt like a kidnap in my cruel coat; kicking, drunken, like a jackhammer in a unitard, but dragged by my camera… whose impressions I used to adore.
Here in Sydney, the Capital of Vapid, where sizable dicks have been surplanted by enormous quiffs and tribal tattoos with big street art. Here in the cunt capitol of this country; I find myself losing all love for local land and man alike.
Some year or two ago, I thought we were in a city broken with the weight of shit and corruption. But we’re actually in the thrift-store New York knock-off… a plastic testament to the second generation bogans who found a big lawn in the prosperity of the eighties.
Our culture is as authentic as our bedrock of back-water Sheryls need it to be… cultured enough for the family photos which will be sent to a Brisbane aunt, lathered with all that Simple Culture thinks is COSMOPOLITAN.
We’ve closed our genuine dive bars (think Bar-Ace); where florescent-lit smoke and beers with a dash of soap cost you a few coins and a few sideways glances. Now we have ‘Dive’ bars, each mimicking a culture far removed from our own, where one can find the same people they tried to talk to last year at Doctor Pong or the year before at OAF.
Outrage is nudity and real cut-throat unrest is unthinkable, even to our children over-bored.
Challenge is drinking yourself to sleep, and smiling in your slumber that our cops didn’t tip your beer out like an anxious mother might ribena.
This city is sinking. And now I’m sinking with her.
Sydney, A city with a tiny dick.
GB
“Sydney is sinking” has never been so true.
bam.
like a rifle crack up the arse of a tweaking whore with a big lawn.
If you compare her with some of the worlds great centers, she’s retarded in the true sense of the word. But she’s also home, and I miss her dearly.
Sink, you have sunk