in the 1967 referendum
the freedom to practice the voodoo of semantics
within the marrow of Hotel Bone
existence only 2 minutes walk
from some of the best latte lounges in the city
yet, white faces don’t come down here
until they’ve been classified unfit for duty
no longer permitted upon the chorus line
of the cappuccino song
where multi-culturalism is in an airline format
first-class, business and economy seating
but those of us who submit to the chance of mystery-flights
end up on the tar, of Hotel Bone
a haven from Saddam, Suharto, the Tamil Tigers
and One Nation
this Hotel Bone;
it is hard
it is reachable
it is home
when dogs gamble
lying on the floor
with its concrete and ammonia tongue
reaching Charles Bukowski, “Living On Luck”
my split-level mind and its contradictory ghosts
at once condemning his ribald desires of flesh
and praising the simplified schematics of his Richard Nixon landscapes,
I’ve placed a block of cheese on my doorstep
and the ants are drawn to it,
I have no couch to lie on and read
thus, the ants attack my flesh
and I reciprocate, squashing them between my fingers
to produce a gasoline inspired perfume,
the smell of victory
some guy is at it, upstairs, screaming at an accomplice
but between breaths he allows the other tenants movement
and loads a fresh tirade into the breach
under the smoggy glow of tube lighting
frozen images of dogs playing poker
accommodating the warm reception
of a surprise attack
from within the whites of their eyes
tambourines tied to their feet
(untitled)
the late shift erupts;
Greek boys in turbo-fitted 4s
open the back streets
of bitumen lines built for mice
a gear-crunching
nightscape howl
simultaneously
embraced and ejected
into the dire congestion of the city’s spectral pitch
like the fading trumpet oratorio
of an emphysema-riddled jazz musician
bone yard, south brisbane
the swings in the Musgrave Park night
rattle a morose and deserted song
throwing their voices
silhouettes across an abandoned canvas
a jungle-gym resembles the half sunken remains
of a prehistoric beast
ribcage reaching for the moonlight
or an arthritic fist
frozen in protest
the stoic in this wilderness
feeding on the scraps of light
tossed down from the pedestals
of the city’s neon gods.
itinerant blues
“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
From Four Quartets
by T.S. Eliot
cold storage
bussed it into Mitchell
from out of nowhere
and found it on ice
to the horizon line
a smothering layer of cold political rhetoric
the hopeless arguments of history palpitating
gently into the cracks
of stoneware earth
hurting is the season here in the bush
and winter is the additive that comes with it,
the storm shutters are up—
every second store closed or having a closing-down sale
the hunger pains of the city end here
the spirits are being sucked away into this gas-pipeline
as the Beast just keeps taking ... tak ing ... taking...
black and white struggle to reconcile
slashing their own bloodlines
the kids packed off to the Big Smoke
where all the opportunities now manifest
a rainbow-serpent dormant on cryogenic dreams
chilling over into the landscape
while a secret war is fueled on urban innuendo
as a country-town loses another generation of its young
to the lust of the city
a main street void
of the laughter of its children
the dusk sessions
the pyromaniacs of the gods were kicking it
into that desert sunset
upon a fire-pink, burner-blue horizon line
blossoms cherry red
and naked solar flares drowning into hibiscus hell-flowers
dancing a wake for the dying light
above a necropolis of mulga and spinifex
fueling until darkness
when the tourists overdose on shooting stars
the lark of min-min lights
on the petals of midnight bloom
as the ghostriders take up watch
illuminated into the pitch
by the sun-bleached bones
of dry-spell roadkill
kangaroo crossing
I know this stretch in my blood
this is where the Megaleia rufa song
cries louder than any car stereo
the dreaming that suddenly crawls onto the road
and takes it
out of the living—
the ones who fantasised constantly on their own immortality
behind the wheel
but this stretch of road ... this stretch
is where the extroverted angels turn their heads
as the flash that is stronger than steel
launches onto the highway
and brings those of the present
forward to their own judgment day
refraction of light
from split seconds
to eternity
what more
what more can one say
on the cruelty of an arid summer’s day
that cannot be surpassed
in the arias of the dry season;
dust storms wreaking havoc
amongst the ivory wind chimes
of a steer’s ribcage,
bleached and abandoned
upon the cracked pedestal
of a salted claypan
we’re not truckin’ around
upon the dining table of the Invader
there were those who thought
that they could simply mimic creation
and plough through this land
inventive
but blindfolded
—where’d ya get ya license!
and the bitumen vine of wandering impetus
drove right through the bora-ring
and knocked our phone off the hook
forever
forcing us to stand out on the shoulder of the road
looking for a lift,
even though
we weren’t really lusting
that 18-wheeler of a lifestyle
driving into the next millennium
we’ve been too used
to feeling a kinship
with the discarded and shredded
black pieces of truck tire
on the fringes of the big road
us ‘damper-feet’ may just pull up a seat on the shoulder
watch
and observe
how you lead-foots fend for yourselves
as the surfers twist before the white squall ahead
the encroaching absalom before us all
an elect
ronic highway
nil by mouth
the salt creeps in
grain after grain
destructive in its microbe-brevity,
you see patches of evidence;
grey and relapsing
skeletal stance of scrub
liver spots on a once flourishing skin of
natural algorithms,
and the mouths out here will murmur, die-off!
the saline schematics of slow death
that are very hard to swallow
the golden skin of cowgirls
at the end of a brief Warrego sojourn
hungry and gravel strung
after searching for days and only finding emptiness
accompanied by road-trains heading for the slaughterhouse
little piggy eyes staring
through the slats of the trailers
with a beige, yet invisible shit-mist that stays up your nose
and gets into everything
and like the classical lion with a thorn in its paw
Brisbane lurks on the other side of those hills,
smooth green monoliths
tickled by the arias of Harold Blair
as they reflect the silky breeze
that sometimes carries the perfume
from the golden skin of cowgirls:
award winning, lightly browned pastry,
best pies and cream-buns this side of the Great Divide
where the road-trains pause
and truckers chow down on sausage rolls and waves of sweet,
darkened milk
letting piggy buy some time
before the boners get the best of him
nothing out here at the moment but crackling radio waves
that deliver piggy his requiem;
Charlie Pride, easy-over-agriculture-blues
floodlight sonatas
white spark backdrop
off the forms seduced by blackness,
I hate travelling at night
unable to stomach the singing of the lonely road
or the whispers
of a deadman’s mouth harp in the breeze
bringing on premonitions of sudden engine failure
and,
how the halogen lamps ruin the night
and sometimes expose the
memories you’re running from
I see the faces
I dare not speak of in focus
as my ritual humming of nursery rhymes
keeps in time with a pounding in my chest
desperate, until I reach my destination,
that the hairy hands in the back seat
won’t materialise from my
retrospective sins
and take a deserved piece of me
or merely,
just a taste
abandoned factories
the dark sentinels passed on the road
silent and empty
and what was discarded
or didn’t fall under the auctioneer’s hammer
is stuffed into industrial bins
like entrails at a meat works
the beast was gutted,
a victim on the chopping block
of economic rationalism
when the bosses called it quits
now a quiet and morose tune threads
through the broken windows
like silenced bullets fired into a grand old elephant
as it stands; the losing favorite
unable to move
start a new life, progress
as the ghosts have all
but moved on too
scenes from a getaway car
another late Thursday night ... and I’m wondering
why I bothered to use expensive cologne
when the stench of the bar drowns it out
me and four other passengers tonight...
in the getaway car...
escaping the crimes that eat us away,
one of my brethren looks at my dark-skinned gait
I acknowledge his staunch Mediterranean jaw,
lines in his face like a topographic map
the cuneiform of worry, from the old country and centuries of killing
here she comes! fake blonde along the linoleum counter ... this driver that calls everyone ‘love’
how are ya, love?
what will it be, love?
’nother pot, love?
she’s at the wheel now ... this getaway car of many campaigns ... used, abused, restored and rigged
and everyone wanting a window seat
you can name your poison
but you can’t choose who’ll sit next to you
and Christ! the punter on the other side
he’s got a face like the dartboard in a country pub
he’s taken a few hits over the years
he’ll definitely be in for a long run tonight
an interesting companion for this trip
then the driver asks me what cologne I’m wearing
what ya been up to, love?
what ya been doing?
and suddenly I’m riding shotgun in the passenger seat
getting death stares from four lonely men,
all dreaming of ‘love’ and that supermarket blonde rinse
everyone taking in the fumes of the bar
as they do every other night between the blue flashes
of either greyhounds or trotters
and the fading smell of lamb chops and countermeal mash
everyone running and trying to win
on two legs and all-fours
bets on
bets off
night racing
night racing through the suburbs
of white stucco dreaming
the menacing glow of the city’s tainted body behind us
as the custodians of the estate domiciles
spy through the holes in their lace curtains
at the howl of our twin-cam war party
drowning out the dying heartbeat of this captured landscape
our small bodies shivering a techno pulse
hugging into corners
accelerating onto the straights
a growling junkyard dingo under the bonnet,
the beast made up from parts here and there
born for the walkabout rally
black feet pumping racing pedal to floor
breaking the silence of the settlers’ sacred sites
enveloped in shadows when not haunted by the silhouettes of urban myth
mind navigation into the bitumen labyrinth
these areas we treat with the same contempt as laid upon us
as middle-class Australia prepares for another evening
darkness and the dreaming of jaywalkers and nightstalkers
yes, it cradles us too
like the Earth Mother did the warriors of old
but we’re too scared to look behind us or in the rear-view mirror
to catch a wink from Voodoojack
and his perpetual black grin
3a.m. escape
got up off the couch
and immediately the room cleared of its winged creatures
flapping in time
to an abdominal exercise machine on the glowing box,
ahhh!
falling asleep again without turning off the television
the evangelists would be up soon
with their healing tentacles
of credit card lust
my mind cleansed by amber spirits,
leaving a pallet as rough as cindery thongs
the last remnants of yesterday
hanging off my crumpled clothing
flashbacks of a late-night telephone call to the ex-wife
like a scientist hell-bent on an answer for cancer
the sun was on the way up
over a cloud–splangled banner
as the jury slept
ti
me to get on the road again
and grab a radar-gun breakfast
pre-flight
It’s 5a.m. in August
and the cold floor of the bus depot is occupied
by the rampant and naked feet
of snot-nosed pygmies
a static background
that resembles a single-mother’s symposium
everyone has packed in haste and is now ready to bail
while the force that has driven them here
remains absent
a pre-flight environment stirring
to the waking groans of a cappuccino-making slave
and an honour guard assembled for the dearly departing;
the smooth peanut-butter-coloured skin of European
backpackers armed with translation books
95 cents a litre
he nurses this big ol’ sedan into the service station
going about the business of a regular consumer
shrugging off that 95 cents a litre in fuel prices
and it may as well be 99,
but there’s no point complaining
when something in his eyes flash
like he too, right there, has just aged to 99 points
putting the hose into the gas tank
he’s almost unconscious in his stance, almost grey
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