IT’S ALMOST AS GOOD AS THE MOVIES
The last house on the street and it’s a treat to beat your feet north to Mr Meat’s
Bulk Barn south to Emerald City Takeways Chinese and European Menus and beyond it the valley of offices hotels banks each reaching for its own little piece of the sky its own rectangular chunk of the blackberry pie morning come and they mirror clouds sun empty air on which birds daze and shatter night come and they random signal luminous squares of light light space light space.
The last house on the street and it’s due for demolition soon the fall of the ball squeal of the steel brr tackatackatackatackascree of the caterpillar crawl of progress chewing leaving holes into which ping another car lot plunk another bank plonk hotel.
All night across the street in the doorway (and it’s almost as good as a movie) the soft syrup of a saxophone bluemoaning bluemooning alone a purple Ford horn blaring yellow rose and syrup flowing amber round the girl on the step night grown bluemoon arms snail tracked hullo you need company?
In the last house on the street it’s hard to sleep.
Pan at her turret window watches it hot flotsam and jetsam drifting.
She wants to go downstairs to the bathroom to wash it all away slip into a new skin
DIANE IS PAINTING
Diane is painting in the room next the bathroom a whole canvas stretched across a whole wall last night she started dropped a tab and splat it’s her subconscious leaking a yellow gobbet mustard pustule slab of sour red everything and nothing. She’s worked all day turning as you go to brush your teeth or pee eyes blank as bottle glass palette knife poised.
Pan is nervous of those bottle eyes
and the knife.
AND WHERE IS MIKE?
From The Rock Garden: Stories (AUP, 1987): 159-60