Hail
Mareeba
My conception -
guilt-ridden -
was an industrial accident
on the tea room table
of the local timber mill
My birth -
unassisted -
brought a skinny red rabbit
to a family of ten
(no desire to feed eleven)
My youth -
uninspiring -
saw me dressed in sugar bags
playing chasey through the cane
before the harvest fires
My teens -
(too much too soon) -
drove me southwards to the city
to pubs and concrete slabs -
home to men, lone and fickle
My life -
on purpose -
chose a poor crippled woman
as the vessel for my soul
but never made me question
My epitaph might read:
Pre-War Queensland Woman
one of many
one more gone.
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On
the Beach (I)
When you’re waiting for the ship
you can mope about in mock solitude
clothed in the shell of as sand blast
safe, in the silent grip of an Eon’s roar
that laps this country with salty deference.
You
can dwell on curiosities –
focus your mind on the girdle of iron
of a well-armoured chiton
suckered close to the rock
with tummy tucked up in response to your prod.
Snails fasten lips and batten down hatches
If wary of careless seasiders,
crushing homes underfoot
with a gaze firmly fixed
on nameless metal speck in the distance.
On
the Beach (II)
When you’re waiting for a hungover dawn
you can crouch around the crackle of illegal fires
warming salt-encrusted limbs,
tuned into radio heroes,
and let laughter filter off
into night’s dank film.
You
can wonder whether just one more beer is too many,
and think not
and join eyes and legs
with a form you’d ignore in the daylight,
marshalled, through unnatural cues,
to the bitter-slimy state of deflowerment.
On
the Beach (III)
When you’re waiting for the future
you can step on the graves of sea-fashioned plastic
at the burial ground of an urban beach
and watch zinc-streaked, Coke-filled kids
Build 10th century house styles in sand,
blissful, avoiding those foreign dogs fighting and retching
in surf-fresh delight
till the Elders pack up now the bellies hang over,
and laughter hits a lull,
snatch up the rug rats and head for the road,
leaving cold chips to thankful gulls.
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Holes
Through the Glass
I
always thought the guts was more important than the packaging
and living here confirms it
in your metal city of dear fabric
clothing cheap design
Where
glazed erections shoot to the clouds
but mostly they’re hollow,
although they’re stuffed with people
who bow to clocks
but still can’t tell the time.
Where
weekly pay is most important
to spend on good time binges
plus bigger things
to throw away
or hoard
or break, like secrets.
Maybe
the packaging is important.
Only
with jokes, I think.
