If I wanted to see the Eiffel tower
I’d pick one photo
of the hundreds, of thousands
ever taken

Taken from every possible angle
In every light available
From down, down, beneath,
and from up, up, above

From an apartment balcony
late at night
with a glass of wine
in one hand.

But, I don’t want to see the Eiffel tower; No!
Instead; I want to see
The laugh lines
of the man who built it

Or the rosy cheeked child
on the corner street
wishing that they were bigger
than they already sadly were,

Or the imprints
of a new-born goat’s feet
in the red, red sand,
of West Africa.

I’d want to see
‘from whence he came’
and ‘from whence he goes’ “
and what home really is again.

I’d want to see
What it means
to see Something more
than just another photo view, of the same old Eiffel tower.

we are the children of the boomers working class
we sip coffees on the outskirts of town,
where fields meet banks and dentists.

we are generation y and we have been labeled.
we travel to far lands to rid ourselves of the suburban perfection and the small-minded complaints of lawns and *** holes.
we search for value beyond what is in our pockets.

we have watched our parents live monotonous lives,
in order to provide for us.  
we are told that we are spoiled, and slow-starting.

with every act and thought we fight to be otherwise.
we are the children, who were talked about,
during big decisions.

we are the children who were ignored.
now we are effected.
the weight is on our shoulders.

we must live in the world that they created.  
we try to modify, to make due, to change,
only to be told we are naive and powerless.

we have interests in things other than suburbia, business, and details. most apparently, we think for ourselves.
we live in a gap of time that our parents never had,
or that we can not imagine them ever having.

we dream, we debate, we express and we travel.
we move beyond the experiences offered here.
in twenty short years, we have already had enough.

we hold onto a small piece of string,
dangling in the darkness of our existence,
holding onto opportunity, before we are forced to forget and settle.

we hope that some of us will escape. we fear that it is impossible.
we have been given everything, we are lucky and we are safe,
and yet we are unsatisfied.

we have learnt the lesson about money and happiness sooner than our parents.
we get ****** in sleepy city’s to shut out the constant speed and pressure.
we sit on cliffs and watch lights flicker off the waters edge. we sip coffees by highways and pretend we will last like this forever.

everything feels like a movie scene.
everyone is a character.
everyone is fighting against the future that we’re told we’ll have.
the weight is on our shoulders.
we are the children who inherit the earth,
and all of its horrendous problems.

Alone;
Intermitted silence
Has a sound
Of nothingness
It exists in its
Non-existence
In the very same
Way as you and I
As we realize we
Are only objects
In other’s worlds;
Only noise to
The ears that
Intercept us
We exist in
Nothingness
When we exist
As sound does
In silence

The overripe mango that sits promptly on my desk stares at me through its one eye, indignantly asking to be eaten – before it goes bad.
I consider, strongly, the mango’s proposition.
Contemplating the level of hunger, or desire I have for this demanding piece of fruit.
It may be that the latte I just finished burnt off any remaining taste buds I have, or it may be that I find
something amusing about holding a mango hostage of its pride – but I just can’t eat it.
A once firm, confident specimen edging ever closer to becoming a wrinkly, seeping, sack of rotten juice.
Knowingly, I chain it to its fate by refusing to slice the skin back and swallow its sweetness.
It demands to be mutilated rather than aged.
As I sit here writing of my hostage, it continues to stare through its eye – spiting me.
Cursing me with future putrid fruit, with worms in my apples, and with brown bananas.
Oh, how I hate brown bananas.
This mango has learnt well in the time it’s spent in my room, it knows my weaknesses.
I always knew that fruit had character, but this mango – I tell you, it’s something else.

You breathed
(I imagined)
As two worlds collided together

Boundaries cracked at their foundation
Red hot liquid spewed at the surface
And a simple white daisy was pushed out of the earth

(I thought of it, a likely story)
You said it was inevitable
Two opposing forces bring each other down

You lied
(I was broken)
And slowly, what was real was gone

I am ready to throw out every map in the world.
I am ready to forget where the lines were drawn over the natural ebb and flow.
I am ready to forget which fields hold whose blood for which land.
To forget which coloured people live in what regions.
To forget the migration of the colonial powers.
To forget which continent is a lost cause, and which continent doesn’t have one.
To forget who sent what bomb, to which country, to **** how many people.
To forget why deserts are thirsty for more than just water,
and to forget why jungles are losing more than just trees.
I am ready to throw out every map, atlas and globe.
To throw out the borders that tell us who belongs and who intrudes.
To throw out everything we’ve ever been told,
About what makes us safe,
And what we must fear.
I am ready.