The changing of the guard shines no light upon
The limestone where the passing of global climes Has no say, brings no surprise, like that of a criminal mind That should rise to position of top rat racing for the prize, “surely it can’t be? Same as the old boss?” - only in disguise. The ideas chime like broken taps dripping In the distant misuse of The Hustler’s precious time As Slim Jim, at once a scribbler of verse, slave to the rhyme, Poet’s brigade in his prime, soon hung up his dreams Left the scene to build the beams of a respectable future By any means. Fell in with The Hustlers, The prize fighters training by rhythm of night Made deals with the Caine Town Rats, Sheltered from the rain beneath many different hats To find the blight of good intentions has a might That beats the will of all well-meaning men’s insights. The changing of the guard shines no light, Only whispers in the dark that we are right To keep our money in our sights and our skins out of the fight.
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The soul of Neo-Soul, the heart of Heartland Rock and the dark of Neo-Noir cinema. My creative playground... Caine Town, and its surrounding areas, were once part of various squabbling kingdoms. It sits deep in a mountain range 100 miles North of the Aegean Sea and is surrounded by the remnants of its past; haunted fortress ruins and the Old Outposts - such as Bonehill, Tusk Valley, Gravelly Hill and Harlow's Hall to name a few - that guarded trade routes leading to the old mining settlements we know today as Caine Town. It served as one of the most important mining communities in the region during the 15th Century where it was known as Novas Mont at which time it became a melting pot for various cultures - something that has remained until this day - who sought their fortune. Sometime around the 18th Century the mines had all but dried up and the settlement, like its shadowy haunted fortress, had all but faded into memory. However, in the late 19th century two blood brothers, seeking their own fame and fortune, discovered a wealth of untouched silver in the mountains surrounding the settlement. The mines were rejuvenated and the settlement gave birth to a bustling boomtown attracting all manner of investment and trade. The blood brothers governed over the town and region with the younger of them displaying a real visionary talent for economic infrastructure and sociopolitical design. He wanted to turn the settlement into a truly free society; a libertarian promised land. He named it Canaan Town. For his realisation of this libertarian paradise the young blood brother was adored by all those who came to the town. But the elder brother, who was as envious as he was in need of assurance, began to despise his younger counterpart for his talent and the adoration he received. One night, in an argument, he killed the young visionary in a fit of rage and, once disposing of the remains, he and his goons, took control of the city where he declared himself in charge giving birth to a near feudal rule, presiding over the growth of the city’s institutions and setting a tradition of oligarchical control that has persisted through the generations to this day. Although officially recognised as Canaan Town, the city would go on to be nicknamed Caine Town to mark the betrayal and fratricide that lead to its forging. During the Second World War the city was a refuge and hotbed for all manner off black market trade and resistance factions during Italian and, after their surrender, Nazi occupation. This era marked the rise of local crime families who traded supplies and intelligence eventually evolving into powerful organised crime syndicates. These groups would later shift into narcotics, vice, gambling, prostitution and arms dealing forming the basis of the city’s criminal empire.
It also marked the Arts Revolution where grandson of the founding family endorsed and imported big band jazz, cabaret and various Vaudevillian and Broadway attractions giving birth to an artistic tradition that remains in the city to this day. During this period these attractions brought together all manner of folk from disgruntled foot-soldiers to liberal freedom fighters. During the Cold War, the city’s isolation allowed corruption and smuggling to grow exponentially. Leaders in the government and members of the founding family colluded with organised crime to build vast wealth and infrastructure like lavish government buildings, casinos and high-rise towers that stand in contrast to the impoverished outskirts not to mention the largely rural Old Outposts. Political and military ties from the Cold War still linger in the shadows, with corrupt officials and ex-mercenaries still maintaining their presence in the city. By contemporary times, the city has become rough, with various factions vying for control: corrupt politicians, wealthy heirs, old organised crime families and corrupt lawyers. Its secondary nickname, The Unholy Vatican, is reference to the city’s unchecked criminal activities and the fact local governments won’t go near it. It is literally and figuratively cut off from the rest of the world both by the mountain ranges that surround it and the ruling classes that run it. The central family and political figures hold influence over a police force that struggles with its own level of corruption and warring factions between the idealists and those who are hungry for power. The population is disillusioned, forced to live under the thumb of those who hold power but, for many, it is also a place where rags can certainly lead to riches and life can change for anyone willing to hustle. Slim Jim swept Dark Annie
Like the tide, “Let’s brave the lies You and I”, he cried, “Should we find ourselves In the killing fields Where old values go to die Where old costs are paid In powder, narcissism and wine, Where cold hearts kiss, And no broken mirrors shine. Where we’re work day bound, To the dreams that only Let us down, With few Errol Flynn Or Clarke Gable’s meant, To rise amongst the crowd”. “You’re more Brando anyway”, she frowned, “For there are no Abel men In Caine Town.” The National Mental Health Service
Is experiencing technical difficulties The notion that everything will be all right Is on another line. Your taxes are better spent Unwasted on these faculties But don’t worry your position in the queue Is fifty five million Nine hundred, seventy nine thousand, Nine hundred and ninety Nine. While you wait it might be wise to think About popping into your local public house Boost the economy with a drink You’ve floated this long Its doubtful you’ll sink Here’s some Ed Sheeran while you wait, We hope it don’t tip you Over the brink. Golden hour more a dour
Unpolished brass hue, Piercing through these little else’s to do Frozen in the lifetime of a day; In Small Heath snow and dew. Churning the Earth, for what it’s worth, In treaded role of digging holes, As young Kabir practises his boles In bread crumb betterment And full view of our safer bet. Behind laughter battlements That brace the elements You make your stand Against the shift for 80 quid, In your pocket quick, That should keep us liq’d In pubs of brick, Til hairy Monday reigns again. Hands that kink under their sores,
On the edge of real and imaginary wars, Use splintered wisdom to barricade the doors, As time sharpens the lead of good men worn. No man here is to be bested, Not even by dull aches from winters tested, Stood on the footings of the trade they've invested, The ale, the laughter and the soul well rested. Underneath a tyrannical sun, Time takes no holidays, and Scrap Iron Men make the most of a days ghosts pay. Tired.
More spiritually at this point. Bank in the negative. Still. Burdening loved ones for places to stay, Should've got a trade, Should've done it years ago, Before the dream started to suffocate. Miss my woman. Prospects on the operating table. Get that patient in here stat! Use what light there is left, This one's caught a rare disease called Dreams & Principles, As though they weren't for the sacrificial altar. Or people with wealth. At least that's the way it seems. Tonight is ripe to break the sobriety streak but, Of course, That would be weak and, Of course, I'm cranky. Carpal tunnel vision. Hands set in concrete, Raging like a dumpster fire. But there's still enough light left in them To search for clumsy melodies in the silence, Light in the shadows. The Odds.
They’re always against you. And when they aren’t, you better act like they are. Stand your ground. Steer the course. Eye on the prize. There’s nothing More agonising & sustained, Than the long, Slow toll & ruthless decay Of regret And remorse. The gentle, silent erosion of you, Behind sweet veils of contentment, Is enough to wear even the strongest Down into most silent, Catastrophic suffering, Deep inside the abyss of their Most silent Moments. But the Odds, The Odds are always there to remind you. The Odds are always there to remind you That glory is not at your fingertips, But on the other side of the eternal Mud crawl. Once you've smashed the false window From which you see yourself Awe will be inspired, Tears will be shed, But the Odds will remain Like a bully beating you over your soul. The sting of the struggle will be bearable But the rage of regret is everlasting. The odds are always there to remind you that The other side holds Rewards and riches far beyond Any material thing your narrow material mind Can comprehend. The Odds are always there to remind you that You're not subject to one Race, sex, colour or creed. That you'll prevail In spite of those things. The Odds are always there to remind you Of what it really means, What it really feels like, What it really means To be alive. The Odds. They’ll love to remind you of them. They’ll revel in the maths, These masters of sugar and sand. Your job is to laugh, Loud like a lion, At the thought of someone bringing up something So irrelevant and insignificant As The Odds. |
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