Hardly David's

Where desperate neon cries,
and footpaths ooze under his feet.
Where worn, scarlet women shine hollow
and inked voyagers come and go.
Where two-wheeled monsters glisten
and huddle side-by-side in a pack.
Where idly, their masters sit by,
he admires their villainous guise.

Standing next to the beasts,
both slaves and each others' masters,
he eyes the polished machine,
he wants to feel the ride.
Fwah, to saddle the machine, gently,
to hold on and grab the reigns,
to be a Rebel, a Cavalier,
a mask in the great leather clan.

He enquires and the guy says, "sure",
so he braces the prized bull.
With spread legs he holds sword handles
and is instantly dominant, supreme.
He looks at the owner and utters,
something about a fine set of wheels.
“You better watch out”, he laughs,
“That’s not my bike you know!”

His time with them is up,
off the bike, the crime-scene, he flees,
through laneways with hungry red-lights,
and alleys that prey on the street.

Great Dividing Range

Two sisters crouched in Arnhem land,
the little one’s eyes still glowed,
sheltered behind splintered beer kegs,
young noses to peeling boards,
hiding from nails and fists
over the road, between their families.
The pub chuckled and hollered,
the park echoed with fury.

It was Thursday, pay-day, 'drinks on me'.
Two reclined inside, into elbowed grooves
and gulped liquid gold at the bar. On thin legs
swollen and red, checked flannels twisted, wiry orange beards.
The men were of a group and cackled through their chops,
she heard the heated yarns, that flowed from towering stools,
they bragged about their night, with piercing, wicked grins,
"They were hangin’ round their camp fires,
lyin’ all over the place. I drove straight through 'em,
even over some fires,
must've run over 'bout eight'".

She froze then swallowed, her vision blurred,
little sister's eyes still glowed.
She grabbed her on the arm,
and raced her out the back.
Small footprints followed behind
into the land without a sound,
where so many before had survived.

Sun Baking

My eyes open in a blinding squint. I must have dozed.
Above, a giant circle surrounds me. A pool of pure blue sky
and I just want to fall in, but I am stuck to the sandy roof.
I smell sunscreen, I feel naked. It's so hot.
My towel feels, crispy and salty. I need a swim.
The sand talks to spraying feet and I hear
the colourful voices. Out of the corner of my eye,
I see pure enjoyment radiating through the quiet
and content faces of all those sunbakers
of which, I suppose, I am one.

Decision, Decision, Decision

I have to decide, up on the opening line.
I have to decide then upon this.
Where to put. Full. Stops.
I have to decide.

Upon the way in which,
My words procreate,
I have to decide.
I have to decide.

How to jolt?
Sliding words
Over.
Perhaps onto the next line.

Two bee clever with words
Or not to be.
I have to decide what to do.

I have to decide. The bin is
always so close.
Should I keep going? Will it get
Better? I have to decide.

Relays on Ships

He reads
red menu,
- Desert -

I'd like a Sahara ‘dessert’.
He wonders in what he said.
She wanders off, red.

He wants to head too.
To drink head, lose head
get head in head,
on the head of a ship.

Keep head.
No need to head.
"I'll at least eat my
desert dessert".

Cornered

Soundless, focused and slightly enraged, he sat, engulfing the chair and awaiting the firm yet gentle, quick but wise hands of his devoted coach. His mouth-guard was pulled from his mouth, water squirted at his lips, Vaseline smoothed over his cut eyebrow and words of wisdom were spoken at him but drowned out by the crowd’s elation. Red had been his lucky corner but looking through the white haze in his eyes, he could have been in the blue corner, no, red. Colour could afford not to be noticed as long as he was quick to avoid the weighty bags thrust into his head and body over the course of the evening. He didn’t have to think too much as his grueling training had made blocking and attacking come as subconsciously as flicking the indicator when he drove.

Several rounds had passed and the breaks between rounds grew faster and faster. Like poetry his mouth-guard was eased into his gripping teeth; those quick, wise hands encouraged his cheeks and shoulders, moving in time with the coach’s mouth. He heard only a blurred silence, grew from his seat to his standing position and a bell groaned twice from near the ring. Clenching his fists and hammering his gloves together in a clap, it was surprising that his own hands weren’t crushed. Each glove containing five robust logs decorated with their knots, twists and wear of time. Between the canvas floor and the bottom rope he saw the face of his newborn child with its newborn fingers and nose, oblivious to the pain and suffering that could be felt. He promised his girlfriend that the fights would stop once the baby was born and this was to be his last fight, much to the promoters’ disappointment.

Those close enough to the ring could hear the snapping slaps being exchanged and those who were even closer could hear both fighters breathing bullets with each sudden movement. With both fighters slowing and tiring at a similar pace, fists became heavy and found it harder to find their target. Their feet stamped slowly towards each other and both fighters embraced, their fatigue pushing each chin onto the others shoulders. They continued to push their gloves intermittently into each other during this time and the referee quickly pulled them apart.

Looking down toward his girlfriend for inspiration through his narrow, swollen eyelids, he saw a person with a baby and assumed it must be her. It wasn’t so much that he wanted the title, the recognition or even the prize-money, he just wanted to go out a winner. His body filled with desire and he grew once more. As they met in the middle his opponent also seemed taller and they both glistened under the bright lights with renewed fury. They fought like lions, both wanting to be respectably crowned the king.

Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. A shot got through and connected with his jaw and left cheekbone. He stood still except for a slight rock like a boat moored in a calm harbour. His thoughts were slurred and he looked once more to his girlfriend but could only hear the cries of a young baby and sounds of distress echoing from it’s mother. His body wanted to fill with desire but he only felt himself shrink. A blue glove grew in size in front of him and if it wasn’t for his sideways stumble, it would have shattered his nose and his dreams of winning. Feeling the edge of the glove graze his temple and squash his ear, he grew once more. It was one of those strange moments like a wounded dog biting it’s rescuer, a chicken running around headless or even a stranded mountaineer coming back from the dead. His muscles inflated and his gloves were weightless once more. Unleashing his newfound fury in a raging whirl, gravity became too strong a force for his opponent and it rescued him to the canvass. After seven seconds his courageous opponent rose and, mumbling his words like a mental patient, pleaded his case for continuing with the referee. The opponents coach had the white towel resting on the blue corner pad. The referee let the fight resume and those weightless red gloves seemed to have a significant effect on his opponents head. Only the coach of his wavering opponent saw the tooth leap from his head and no one saw the blood spill all over the red glove. The white towel surrendered itself from its blue perch and was thrust forcefully into the ring. The referee was to stop the fight and the red corner was to win.

He didn’t see the towel or the referee. Those eyes only saw one object and those ears were too focused to hear anything. With the referees hands coming between them he was a wounded dog once more and unleashed on his opponent. A left blow to the ribs cracked four, pushing two into his lungs and was followed instantly and autonomously by a right fist to his opponents head. It may have been his eyes that rolled back first but it could have been that crunching, snapping sound coming from inside his neck which would have left him paralysed had he survived.

Still unsure of what happened, he felt the referee, his opponents coach and those familiar hands of his own coach pushing and pulling him away.

His fury dropped to the canvas with his opponent, as did the faces of both girlfriends and the medic. For so many years he had been involved in this game but winning had never felt like this. The newspaper reporters looked stunned and excited, trying to devise the best angle to take on this story. This time the back page would definitely make it to the front.

Between Tides

Should
The key found its way into his navy front-door. The teeth once slid smoothly but now grate into the ocean-encrusted keyhole, occasionally requiring a hammer from his palm. He has been meaning to feed it some oil for months. Just like the light-switch that he instinctively flicks on every time he enter in the evenings, reminding him to change the globe that popped. He now knows there is a table-lamp seven steps down the hall, on the left and at waist-height.

No Rewind Button
A mothers arms are worn pinball machine flippers while her son is the machine itself, hysterically flailing in every direction, trying to avoid being housed in a nappy. His boisterous protest leaves remnants of the aftermath. Exertions of strength and infuriation, used to carry out this assignment, are visible on both faces. They exude desires to be in another place, in another time and both are too enveloped in their own emotions to realise the people streaming by. An elderly woman sits hunched on the edge of a park bench. She is alone, squashed on the outskirt of the seat and he's not sure whether she is making the bench available to welcome an honoree or whether she just shrivels to the grandiosity of sitting in the middle. She glares at mother and child, her eyes twinkling with commemorations of motherhood as she flashes back to her youth. Her blunt teeth mash loosely through a crummy bakery tart, her cheeks and lips a jellyfish, sloppily absorbing the trifling treat.

Sandcastle
He stands at the edge where she had jumped. The rock ledge has been sculpted from sandy, smooth, creamy, orange, brown and beige. Ants are crawling all around and soon tickling the tops of his feet, mocking her by crawling over the edge and safely descending the broken cliff. He tries to imagine what it had been like standing there, her toes numb to silent, squealing tears, wanting to drop. He wonders what she thought in those hazy moments before summoning up the courage, or cowardice. He wasn’t there yesterday, the day her last footprints were made.

Concrete Rainbow
Blades of grass crinkle beneath his shorts as he gazes over the crowd on the promenade below. Traces of sun-cream pockets float in the salty air, reminding him of all those summers before. A middle-aged woman is riding her skateboard behind her daughter who is gliding ahead. They carve through the colourful crowd who are riding their vintage bicycles, walking their pocket dogs or cradling mobile phones. The girl rolls along like a woman, her mother swerves through like a little girl.

We Need a Story

They chase down those who suffer,
to withdraw their emotion to feed
the masses who love a good soap.
They call, they harass, no boundaries,
to get their stories to the streets
with the facts beneath the blur.

The headlines envoke a reaction
and people buy to react
and pretend to be up to date,
obeying those who instruct them,
absorbing instructions and messages
sandwiched between flashy stories
which tomorrow will be old.

Bent Snorkel

Waves of ocean leap,
Gashing skin, shelled rocks, white fluff,
Silent calm below.

Birds of a Feather

Rustling from above
alerts him to its presence.
A creature of the air, born from the sky,
clawing at his gutter,
squawking in his ears.
Tinking left and right.
Voyeuristic, brown and manged,
filled with lice and dirty. Poky, yellow snout
prowling, exposing it's beady belly
to his windowsill.

He slithers to the cupboard,
then aims his sight at the roof.
It's been replaced, cheerfully,
whistling him a rainbow,
more radiant than a painting,
what a sight to see! "Oh, lorikeet",
he sweetly chirps,
"where are all your friends?"