The girls and the budgies
The girls are young
and walk and stand
in the dust along the highway
and near the service station
at Eastern Creek.
I don't know how much they make
but they end up in cars in
the cemetery, sucking cigarettes
and other things.
Hair in their faces,
runs in their stockings,
swearing, and calling out, and looking sad,
under the full moon
and bright stars
on peaceful nights.
They remind me of
when I sat in the kitchen
watching budgies make
droppings into their seed,
and into their water,
and the budgies were pretty,
and chattered, and
were frenetic,
but never sang.
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Friday, 19 August 2011
Poem # 19 The Sorceress
The Sorceress
I know a Sorceress,
her name is Flange Desire.
She says things like;
"There's something seriously
wrong with your relationship",
or
"Susan really likes you"
or
" The boss was talking
the other day, he's very
worried about your work",
and in this way she casts her spell,
and it works and works upon me
unless I counter it with some magic
of my own.
I know a Sorceress,
her name is Flange Desire.
She says things like;
"There's something seriously
wrong with your relationship",
or
"Susan really likes you"
or
" The boss was talking
the other day, he's very
worried about your work",
and in this way she casts her spell,
and it works and works upon me
unless I counter it with some magic
of my own.
Poem # 18 Wynyard Station mens' room
Wynyard station mens' room
I entered the toilet
at Wynyard station,
observing all the rituals.
Don't stand too close,
don't let your eyes wander,
get a corner position
if possible to guard
from prying eyes.
As I turned from my business
to wash my hands
I was startled to see
beneath a cubicle door
two feet in lace up boots,
naked legs, no pants,
and between the feet were
three things.
A pile of toilet paper
piled high
in layers of
lessening width
like the adornments
on an extravagent
continental cake.
On the peak of this pile was a
syringe, and
beneath the pile
grew a pool
of blood
rich and red,
an ever increasing
Rorschach blot
of primary colour,
three dimensional,
a sculpture,
but the most
startling thing of
all was that no one did
anything, just washed
their hands and left.
I entered the toilet
at Wynyard station,
observing all the rituals.
Don't stand too close,
don't let your eyes wander,
get a corner position
if possible to guard
from prying eyes.
As I turned from my business
to wash my hands
I was startled to see
beneath a cubicle door
two feet in lace up boots,
naked legs, no pants,
and between the feet were
three things.
A pile of toilet paper
piled high
in layers of
lessening width
like the adornments
on an extravagent
continental cake.
On the peak of this pile was a
syringe, and
beneath the pile
grew a pool
of blood
rich and red,
an ever increasing
Rorschach blot
of primary colour,
three dimensional,
a sculpture,
but the most
startling thing of
all was that no one did
anything, just washed
their hands and left.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Poem # 17 Desert Fire
Desert Fire
The desert in North Africa at night,
big sky country,
the stars a glittering arc
from here to eternity
above the red earth.
The campfire demands our focus,
hypnotic in its attraction,
flames darting like small red
desert creatures
leaping from bark to branch to leaf;
a soft vapor of heat
the caress of breath
from a living thing.
Flames whirl and writhe in frenetic movement,
I see tribal dancers in the flames,
cinders rise on the smoke
to float like newborn
fireflies.
The fire with great red wings
a resurrected phoenix,
a dancing partner
making a connection.
Drawn into the dance I see
the crimson and orange veils,
strength fearsome to behold,
yet beautiful, so beautiful,
alive with heat,
and I understand
the magic of the
desert.
The desert in North Africa at night,
big sky country,
the stars a glittering arc
from here to eternity
above the red earth.
The campfire demands our focus,
hypnotic in its attraction,
flames darting like small red
desert creatures
leaping from bark to branch to leaf;
a soft vapor of heat
the caress of breath
from a living thing.
Flames whirl and writhe in frenetic movement,
I see tribal dancers in the flames,
cinders rise on the smoke
to float like newborn
fireflies.
The fire with great red wings
a resurrected phoenix,
a dancing partner
making a connection.
Drawn into the dance I see
the crimson and orange veils,
strength fearsome to behold,
yet beautiful, so beautiful,
alive with heat,
and I understand
the magic of the
desert.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Poem # 16 Truth
Truth
A little truth comes
at the dawning of each day.
A little truth comes
at the closing of each day.
This morning in the shower,
I had a thought,
cruelty springs from weakness,
but how does that explain
a duck ripped open
from the head to the shoulder
by a fox,
or a tsunami
that kills children,
one thousand or more.
A little truth comes
at the dawning of each day.
A little truth comes
at the closing of each day.
This morning in the shower,
I had a thought,
cruelty springs from weakness,
but how does that explain
a duck ripped open
from the head to the shoulder
by a fox,
or a tsunami
that kills children,
one thousand or more.
Monday, 15 August 2011
Poem # 15 Thoughts on a cucumber from the past
Thoughts on a cucumber from the past
When I was 10 in 63, I was a cub
My head full of Akala, Dibs & Dobs,
and leaping wolfs.
In the early summer we went north
to camps on the central coast,
where myriad groups bivouaced like Attilas' tribes,
and the standard of sisal lashings, splices, wooden totems,
and badges on sashes competed for status.
Each group had a bonfire.
I wore a dangerous knife, golden tassels on my camp shirt,
and gaiters for my socks.
In the evening we fought other groups on the beach,
we called these fights "rumbles".
I tackled a softer boy and pinned him down, covered
him with sand until he said
"pax"
In the night we crept up on the Surf Club through tussocks
like wily Pathans,
and listened to Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs.
In the day we climbed the big hill that overlooked the sea.
The sun glinted, the air was clear and hot
in the Australian summer.
On the train home some boys yelled and waved
toilet paper streamers like Knight's pennants.
We explored the toilets and the ricketty connections
between carriages that were strangely exciting,
we had heard of decapitated heads on telegraph poles.
I had a cucumber left from the camp,
it was still fresh.
Cool, solid, green, like a vegetable submarine.
"take it to your Mum" 'Skip" had said.
On that journey the cucumber had become my beloved.
It was precious to me, imbued with the soul of a small
loveable creature.
It became a symbol of something more.
A boy grabbed it, and laughing flung it from the train.
It smashed,
white and pulpy, like flesh,
on a telegraph pole.
Sadness overwhelmed me
and I cried.
This cold evening in August,
I think of the death of that cucumber,
and of brown uniforms, bindings, knives, rumbles,
and what boys do.
When I was 10 in 63, I was a cub
My head full of Akala, Dibs & Dobs,
and leaping wolfs.
In the early summer we went north
to camps on the central coast,
where myriad groups bivouaced like Attilas' tribes,
and the standard of sisal lashings, splices, wooden totems,
and badges on sashes competed for status.
Each group had a bonfire.
I wore a dangerous knife, golden tassels on my camp shirt,
and gaiters for my socks.
In the evening we fought other groups on the beach,
we called these fights "rumbles".
I tackled a softer boy and pinned him down, covered
him with sand until he said
"pax"
In the night we crept up on the Surf Club through tussocks
like wily Pathans,
and listened to Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs.
In the day we climbed the big hill that overlooked the sea.
The sun glinted, the air was clear and hot
in the Australian summer.
On the train home some boys yelled and waved
toilet paper streamers like Knight's pennants.
We explored the toilets and the ricketty connections
between carriages that were strangely exciting,
we had heard of decapitated heads on telegraph poles.
I had a cucumber left from the camp,
it was still fresh.
Cool, solid, green, like a vegetable submarine.
"take it to your Mum" 'Skip" had said.
On that journey the cucumber had become my beloved.
It was precious to me, imbued with the soul of a small
loveable creature.
It became a symbol of something more.
A boy grabbed it, and laughing flung it from the train.
It smashed,
white and pulpy, like flesh,
on a telegraph pole.
Sadness overwhelmed me
and I cried.
This cold evening in August,
I think of the death of that cucumber,
and of brown uniforms, bindings, knives, rumbles,
and what boys do.
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Poem # 14 The Patron: he meant business
The Patron
He meant business
He was an older man
At an age when complacent men retire
if they're not ambitious and determined like him.
He was big,
doctors would call him obese,
detractors would call him fat.
I just thought him big.... strong, powerful, with latent authority.
He was dressed in a Norfolk jacket of Harris tweed,
with an RSL badge in the lapel and a tweed trilby hat.
I met him in the main warehouse of the transport company that he owned.
He had started with one truck.
The warehouse was red brick, with a galvanised iron roof.
The front walls were ivy covered
and huge pink and white peace roses grew in the freshly turned red earth that
exuded the pungent smell of horse manure.
The town was like a piece of Victorian England, the warehouse impressed me as being like a great hall on the edge of the desert.
The air was dry.
" The air of the desert was good," he said,
"machines lasted indefinitely in that sort of air.
I had come to the warehouse to leave my wife's sculpture....
... The Semantic See Saw.... to be taken to an exhibition.
It was placed at the end of a long line of art.
"What do you think of Art?", he asked.
I considered and replied.
"I don't know"
"I've looked at these", he expounded, and his arm swept to include the sculptures.
"and I think some are good and some are bad,
and I know what I like!"
He puffed up his chest as he said this.
His Rolls Royce was parked there.
Silver and charcoal grey with red dust on the underside of the fenders and
covering the double R on the hub caps,
but the silver lady gleamed aggressively
behind an imposing black steel
bull bar he had attached to the front.
The bull bar was like a steel gate.
"What do you think of my car?", he asked.
"It's impressive" I said, admiring the leather upholstery and walnut facia.
He nodded and told me...
" I put the bull bar on for the roos and the cattle,
they run on the roads at night,
when I drive across the desert,
those roos look like old men in grey raincoats
when they hide in the scrub at night.
I didn't want them putting a dent
in the grill when they died,
but when I hit them with the bars
they bounce ten feet in the air
and they're dead before they hit the ground.
It's a good car to cross the desert at night.
I can do 200ks in two hours, and all I can hear is the ticking
of the clock.
I wanted to turn it into a ute but
the Rolls people wouldn't hear of it.
I said nothing.
He continued;
" You know what I like most about this car....
I like going to the football in it."
I thought of the lean men jumping
with their arms outstretched in their
striped guernseys at the football ground
with its red brick pavilions and huge Moreton Bay figs.
on the edge of the desert.
"Yes, I like going to the football", He said,
"and everyones lined up waiting to get a car park,
one, two hundred cars or more,
and the gatekeeper sees the Rolls
and he waves me past,
and I drive right past them
without waiting
I drive past slowly
and I see their looks of anger,
and frustration, and spite.
"You bastard!" they mouth from inside their cars
and they lift one or more fingers or even
an arm in a gesture of contempt.
"I like that"
He looked smug as he said this.
I looked out of the huge open sliding doors of the warehouse,
and in my mind's eye I saw grey steel wool clouds gather above that
ersatz English town on the edge of the desert in Australia.
He meant business
He was an older man
At an age when complacent men retire
if they're not ambitious and determined like him.
He was big,
doctors would call him obese,
detractors would call him fat.
I just thought him big.... strong, powerful, with latent authority.
He was dressed in a Norfolk jacket of Harris tweed,
with an RSL badge in the lapel and a tweed trilby hat.
I met him in the main warehouse of the transport company that he owned.
He had started with one truck.
The warehouse was red brick, with a galvanised iron roof.
The front walls were ivy covered
and huge pink and white peace roses grew in the freshly turned red earth that
exuded the pungent smell of horse manure.
The town was like a piece of Victorian England, the warehouse impressed me as being like a great hall on the edge of the desert.
The air was dry.
" The air of the desert was good," he said,
"machines lasted indefinitely in that sort of air.
I had come to the warehouse to leave my wife's sculpture....
... The Semantic See Saw.... to be taken to an exhibition.
It was placed at the end of a long line of art.
"What do you think of Art?", he asked.
I considered and replied.
"I don't know"
"I've looked at these", he expounded, and his arm swept to include the sculptures.
"and I think some are good and some are bad,
and I know what I like!"
He puffed up his chest as he said this.
His Rolls Royce was parked there.
Silver and charcoal grey with red dust on the underside of the fenders and
covering the double R on the hub caps,
but the silver lady gleamed aggressively
behind an imposing black steel
bull bar he had attached to the front.
The bull bar was like a steel gate.
"What do you think of my car?", he asked.
"It's impressive" I said, admiring the leather upholstery and walnut facia.
He nodded and told me...
" I put the bull bar on for the roos and the cattle,
they run on the roads at night,
when I drive across the desert,
those roos look like old men in grey raincoats
when they hide in the scrub at night.
I didn't want them putting a dent
in the grill when they died,
but when I hit them with the bars
they bounce ten feet in the air
and they're dead before they hit the ground.
It's a good car to cross the desert at night.
I can do 200ks in two hours, and all I can hear is the ticking
of the clock.
I wanted to turn it into a ute but
the Rolls people wouldn't hear of it.
I said nothing.
He continued;
" You know what I like most about this car....
I like going to the football in it."
I thought of the lean men jumping
with their arms outstretched in their
striped guernseys at the football ground
with its red brick pavilions and huge Moreton Bay figs.
on the edge of the desert.
"Yes, I like going to the football", He said,
"and everyones lined up waiting to get a car park,
one, two hundred cars or more,
and the gatekeeper sees the Rolls
and he waves me past,
and I drive right past them
without waiting
I drive past slowly
and I see their looks of anger,
and frustration, and spite.
"You bastard!" they mouth from inside their cars
and they lift one or more fingers or even
an arm in a gesture of contempt.
"I like that"
He looked smug as he said this.
I looked out of the huge open sliding doors of the warehouse,
and in my mind's eye I saw grey steel wool clouds gather above that
ersatz English town on the edge of the desert in Australia.
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