Dacia Express

23:25
The city as we passed through it was heavy with the vibration of tears.
A trembling wasteland of ashes dancing
Curved blade of the river
cleaving
through the middle.

Melancholy rising from the bullet holes
where the streets coiled in on themselves
like animals preparing for the winter.

 

14:02
The harshness of salt and the liquid
smell of the ocean carried on the charcoal wind.
Through the half open train window
watching the city was like watching
a photograph burning into view:
a mythic hero playing a tragic figure
trying to grapple with history like a man
trying to hold the river in a sieve.

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

accretion to smuggle

(The Everyday English Dictionary)
 
secret:
I have stolen things —
bricks an old mortarboard
handfuls of cement dust
smuggled in my pockets

 
city:
everyone and their cats and dogs
the press of legs
accretions of noise dirt smog
all you knew
longing for something green
or faraway and blue

 

smuggle:
if there is a hollow
use it
absence is abhorred
makes me fond
is the room full of blondes
and being the only raven
in the middle

 

accretion:
fed drop by drop from the cave top
a stalagmite grows
a Moorish song
sung at night
a fire
some smoke
and the dogs barking
at anything that moves

 

hollow:
to feed it a number of ways
there is the roasted gecko
ground seeds of the Johannes tree
stolen almonds pilfered oranges
impatient waiting for pomegranates
to fruit its red hips
today I found a secret patch of frogs
singing their cracked song

 

Moor:
a pattern emerges from the tile
something blue something green
a history an old story
ancient steam from ancient baths
a carved star falling
from the roof

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

is there more to worry than lunch?

well before advertising shouted fresh
a woman down Hunter St decorates her window
as purveyor of edibles, proprietress of freshness
she has no telephone to ring for supplies
food webs of people seek her out
carting fuel on foot, she's a cold expert
with the iceman and milkman
with the bread man and pastry cook
she learns a crumb or two hundred
a fruit barrow man throws a few plum jokes

what if they don't turn up, what if
the bread man's sick, the daily bread
of the office workers, their ham sandwich
can you cut that with mustard?
what if I'm sick, the thought is dismissed
her only real worry is – constant worry
and this is dangerous thinking for a
sole proprietress, existing by words
word of mouth, food by the mouthfuls
dangerous as running out of bread
with no phone, fax or email in 1937

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The Lunchbox Review

The Lunchbox is a convenient take-away food shop in Hunter Street, Sydney, next door to the Tobacconist and a few shops down from the well-known Golf Shop.

The proprietress, Mrs Beatrice B. prides herself on providing fresh food daily. Sandwiches and rolls are created to suit each and every palate. She explains, 'Our salad sandwich is a Sydney gem. It is studded with what you would expect: lettuce, tomato and onion – and our special ingredient-home-cooked beetroot. I am of opinion that this is one of the best foods to boost good health. Beetroot is the next best thing to beetroot juice, which is so widely promoted these days. I was introduced to it at a recent séance when the members spoke highly of it.' Other favourites of her customers include salmon sandwiches and ham with mustard.

Each morning including Saturday, when her daughter, Irene comes in to help, Mrs Bussey decorates the window display with a delectable variety of fruits and cakes. Morning and afternoon tea are both available. Asked what drink is popular she said 'Office workers stroll past our shop towards the Botanical Gardens for lunch and they often call in for some cool lemonade. At sixpence a glass, this is worth every penny.'

Hours are 8am to 6pm Monday to Friday, and 8am to 12.30pm Saturday

No eftpos or credit card facility as this is still 1937.

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\Bushwick\

Midnight Market:

whole damn city & you pick yourselves over

not saying you don't waste

Goddamn you waste

whatever you can

peanuts in shells on Circus bar floor

to real bamboo toothpicks

holding olive over thimble

ful of martini in proper stemmed cone

all thrown out

sometimes sorted

always scavenged

fried chicken bones pecked by pigeons & General Tso

's for rats what's left

for little us then?

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\Longhu\

Midnight Market:

when old women have reclaimed

s(h)aved bamboo sticks for pineapple

cow carvings & stinky tofu

when only KTV lights

chase each other

& streetbulbs cased in plastic flowers

have dimmed to match sky

we lift up skin plastic bags

for our bazaars where fruit stands

& customers dropped them

we scrape mango from pits

banana from skin

throw flesh into vast sewers

that sometimes overflow

& drown our night metropolis

before we can return

to our daylight suburbs

imperfect finished walls

loose bric(k

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Tibetan Internet Shield

Chinese text 03:

 
 
Near the city centre's First Ring Road
a bus explodes like a repressed memory:
a shoddy job, done fast & dirty many years ago;
in an alleyway, an outline knives a young Han couple.
For days the mobile phone doesn't stop
chiming with a vague yet purportedly
grim portent. & then it does, your choice of words
having hit the jackpot: you're on the grand
casino radar now; you're speechless – that is,
suddenly incapable of speech.
You cross whole campuses – empty,
streams of conversation that murmur
with the fears of well-intentioned parents.
You leave town, quickly, on the Friday late-train.
You click your tongue at a golden puppy;
without a word, it takes the rice cake from your hand.

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The White Horse

Chinese text 01:
 
 
Wanting so much to learn the classifier for poems
about classifiers, I sought out the wisest teacher;
she handed me a black ceramic pot the spout of which
now daily flowers into smog. I needed more:
the Second Way, she said, was a devotion
to propaganda, perhaps a shot at life on the petulant seas.
But the white stallion with its cloud-draped hooves
& silk-thread mane never turned up for collection.
Nor did my Vietnamese mother who had forsaken me on this,
the eve of the lunar new year. Only thus did I learn
that I am from Australia, that I am an Australian
– an ungracious people, I have read, whose marketable skills
include pressing the eject button on history,
that constellation of CD players in the sky.
& so I was: a spinning disc who spoke often
but recorded nothing, not even the tiniest byte.
I had a thirst that strong white liquor couldn't quench.
I was always hungry, especially at night.
For hours I would channel surf a TV that had been turned
upside down & emptied of intelligible signs.
Once I woke up parched in the first gradient of day
when the morning meal is not yet served;
the eggs, alive & cackling. In empty
rooms throughout the hotel, lacy curtains heaved out
— absolute silence — snatching at grey, smoke-laden air.

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

Open City

Like breathing out forever we announce our imminent absence.
The oracle told each of us at the same time in a specific voice
that the great conversation of armed rhetoric and counter-attack

that the flags and insignia, the fine, high step, the articulate whelp
we groomed as a mascot, the port of the mess, the broadside, dog
help us, the grunt and the mud and that lost night when we slept

were ridiculous. Would haunt us. That was the last night we would
sleep. Like anyone else in this city we look to the snow on the hills.
And consider our options. Or rather, what we must do. Our retreat.

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

Axes of Orientation

sit in parks with leaves as feet the eloquence of the day
waning as seeds become antiques (the stairs lead to
carparks and loose bricks) razor wire curls to your
emergency ears you seek assistance green for
timetables red for blood this is the seventh time and
with trucks in cages you know the sundering will begin
(the bars painted in candy stripes) you must submit to
lacing and bags stuffed with words shade lies beyond
the umbrellas held in boxes electrically lit in the end all
answers are highlighted in pink but you are an hour
too late your special needs hung round someone else's
neck your pension allocated to the tree with no leaves

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Beirut Cyber Café (make love not war)

a furtive smile behind screen
beheading's no way to heart
images of catalyst eyes and infant crimes
foreign to endorphin lands

bums cupped on plastic seats
only the absent seek jihadi clips
the rest post boasted worth and doctored skin
to be examined and tagged

RSVP love for ransom species to save

a painted nail scrolls for a dream
backdrop of bips and belly hymns
as lust runnels on free air

1,000 hits this day

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Sarajevo Snow

as shells purr through darkness tomcat black
my palms read the stone between blasts
your letter folded twice over in my hip pocket
worthy of pilgrimage through fated streets

the summer dark turned to glory
I crawl into the square flames moon-high
a nation's books ignited
the library's roof splintering into the shy night
as facades lean in with the solidarity of age
cannon fire makes mockery of faith
and men like molten insects draw water from Miljacka river
to spit and sigh with impotence
sirens beginning their birdless choir

you wait on the other side by your silenced phone
facing a courtyard ringed with cacti your grandmother tends with deftness
not a drop shed
and I think of succulents the prick of mishandled devotion
breathe deep then run head down nape exposed to the shifting sky
a slalom of winking-eyed debris catching the light
to the other side
the cobbles salted with snow on this febrile night
I trace a circle in this summer fall and find it ashen
as more settles on my shoulder like a familiar bird
from a sky turned crematorium
a millennia of words on the charred wind

I stick out my tongue to catch a floating phrase

desire for the world has deprived man
of the object of his desire

turn skyward to face the fall
Rumi hung from my lips

your letter safe against bone

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

Late Winter

Sunday night. Faint sirens paint the town.
I am thinking of the forest at the city limits,
of tall pines creaking in the still air. How long

they have stood there waiting for the osprey
to return and fix their nests. Some will
arrive at first light, any day. Now, as you rummage

for the earplugs you've lost beneath the rubble
of sheets and pillows, their hearts are beating
over the Mediterranean.

Sirens drown out the sound of running water
coming from the kitchen- the sound of you
filling the glasses we will roll over and reach for
and lift to our mouths in the dark.

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

Snow in Linfen

Pine trees bend with snow. In their essays, Chinese students write 'dialectically' and 'imperialistic', words I've not read in an academic while. Japanese teacher Yoko asks, 'Do your students ask personal questions?' Each culture is different, but ironing jeans, in London, New York, Paris, Rome or Linfen, is a bourgeois sentiment. Tree has no leaves but leaf-sized birds on every bough. It's not every day you can see your hand in front of your face. Shoebrush to brush away the dust, loses its bristles on first use. They haven't weeded that roof in decades. Well, it's life with a Chinese accent: fun and drama, upsets and pleasures. Toothbrush bristles too. I quote Du Fu in English. 'You read Du Fu? In English? You don't read Du Fu.' In the seat of Chinese civilisation, vines cover a rusted fighter plane. Yoko points at the word 'cormorants'. I answer, 'It is a bird that sits on pylons and rocks and dries its wings like this.' All writing is polis. Student essay: 'Chinese is hieroglyphs, English is typing.' Linfen snow is white in the kindergarten, black on the roads.

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Recording not Thinking in Melbourne

The man wearing a pink plastic nose held on by his glasses is carrying an Adelaide Writers' Festival bag. Once off the tram he lights a cigarette, cupping the nose against the wind. 'During the night, there was a TV in this wall,' my friend says, tapping with her fingers, eight storeys above Little Bourke St. There are two utes with torn lounges tied on with rope. The drivers don't want the lounges sprawling on the curb and soliciting sitters. A woman pirouettes by, pink hair for her and pink for her poodle, 'It's great to have a window to peep out of when you're exercising,' she says, and she leans into a solid yellow wall. I eat chicken noodle soup in the Mekong Caf?© and watch a samurai movie on the silent TV, Shintaro is wearing a silver nose and eye piece. Subtitles, in Chinese, too polite to mention it.

A little boy in a robot suit walks down Swanston speaking secrets to a Banksia-man microphone. A perfect Enid, a character in a story, on a tram at Flinders Station, crazed hands from a lifetime of work, left leg wrapped in bandages, doesn't have a valid ticket. Octopus tentacles soaked in olive oil, potatoes with fried chorizo, churrozo dipped in warm chocolate, we want what the woman next to us is eating. Down Collins St arm in arm. Tables crowded at Babushka's, a line of people watches us eat eggs, a performance piece, we leisurely order sour cherry strudel and a second coffee. Alice cups, stainless Balinese lotus, Madonnas with strawberries on their chest split into bamboo curtains. Gertrude St cafes that never open, a laneway full of young men in vintage checked-wool suits, a window of workbenches and animal night lights, an orange cat curls asleep in a shopfront window, maximising the weak heat of an afternoon sun-shop assistant or merchandise? A broken wok in Caledonian Lane, the cracked shell of a metal egg. A woman sits in a room above the marriage registry, three fingers on her left hand. The middle two fused-an emu's strong back foot. Meringue brides emerge from the Windsor Hotel, dresses lifted for their carriage and groom.

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Australians in Rome (the boys)

I was introduced
to some australians in rome

they were three boys
from the sticks of country victoria
blowing it all
on their big euro trip

3 days a city –
barcelona, rome, paris, amsterdam, etc.

they'd been drinking all day at a dirty beach;
la sporca spiaggia

they'd never attempted the lingo
even made fun of it in front of the locals

they were cocky all right
but terrified inside
and continually talked about australia –

how great it was
how much better than 'here'

they went into the julius caeser bar
where I just happened to be drinking

they stole the bar mascot –
a stuffed turkey above the cash register

they ran around the room
pretending to sodomise it

they forced the barmen
to sell it to them for ‚€50

they threw it in a bin
on the way back to the hostel,

filling the streets with australian phrases
that I thought were as dead as chips rafferty

I was introduced to them

I pretended to be italian.

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

Wards of State of Western Australia

for Diane

They liked church
the way we liked Countdown
the man had a moustache
& the woman had one too –
a soft, dark shadow
that haunted her smile

Diane didn't like calling them 'Ma' and 'Pa'
because they weren't – we learnt
we had the same hierarchy of crushes
on TV Week poster boys
(over Jatz and Kraft
the adults congratulated each other
they'd done us both good)

I gave Diane my favourite pink jeans
because after she put them on
they looked so good on her
they weren't my favourites anymore

When I asked her about the couple
& their pair of moustaches
she put her palm over her smile

When I asked about her real parents
the answer was something heavy
she lifted it slowly with her shoulders
& her palm was still
covering her mouth.

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

Broome Beach Art

we sit by the o
cean paddocks sipping moisture
from salty scars this is the blee
ding the in
terminable drift sourcewards by opening
the wet eye we
can leave the bushy one c
losed losen up read
currents swells sand
bank accumulation with
confidence we turn back: an
cestral hints we're striding
inwards in
to the pasteofwhatwilldry to silt
ochre dust in your nails
scratching frying up the hurt the ants
swarm with shadows
attached the twine
of a thriving mosaic weaving
__in__out
of one another that
pale,
empty Sky:______
we sit and sing the drought
songless is the art this is
the art of a lost child (lost child)
trying hard to grow a new
mother like (new mother)
wanting kisses on your cheek (your cheek)
from lips too
old
to pucker. (pucker)

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The Departed

She was to have fled between the gaps in the revolution. But not a moment too soon, or a moment too late, the gates sliced escape like cheddar. In the morning he wondered about the transition. Orbiting across the dawning blue. Browsing the obituaries over coffee. If the sun or the moon crumbled they would leave. When bad news comes the good news kids split for the hills. In the prosperous times they research subscriptions for forgetting. Install the latest retro façade. Then later, across the empty room; he had known she had conquered oceans, before she had left his air. He grips a bus ticket like the final atom. The wind skulks off Port Phillip Bay, a discourteous cousin. He says: 'After all these years, I thought you'd know me better than that.'

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Arcade Fire

cul de sacs of desire
excised from the torn corner
of a new map
cyclone fences rubber
embers sick aerosoled
on the underside of
an overpass bootleg eminem
on a tapedeck the moon's
bohemian plots a
defection insert coins
grand theft mac fields
get points for joyriding
counter jumping crystal
meth transactions paint
bottles bouqeting
in storm water steal
flowers for teacher
infidelities of boredom
end them with arrows
days stocking stretch
like summer squatting
on the district a drunk uncle
all roads return there is no
shell beach dress up
for the strip mall
download ringtones
the polyphonic theme
tune for luke luke
and the mac boys
i'd rather be anywhere
but here boost a BMW
three suburbs over
a modified steel ruler
and yesterday's information
get away like a page
fourteen sidebar story
mark turf by the factories
hughes and helmsford
take the call the future
is a frightened horse
these stories resolve
themselves in a matrix
of chance velocity loose
gravel whispers in
the weatherboards
life's crumpled sculpture
injected through trees
picket crosses spring up
resilient GM crops
sweeping the bends of the
nation in mac fields
rumour spreads like weeds
a mother crying
through brick sound
escapes like a tiny gas
smell it wafting off
rooftops torn envelopes
gathering on top of a
bin do your best to
forget tomorrow fathers
flare like comets
there is nowhere
further than here
sedition gathers in
the gutter leaves or
rubbish rocks fly
riot police manoeuvre
night sets the kingdom
flint hard unmalleable
stars sing no songs
broken neon unhinged
in a black sky enforced
limited conscription
canopens 4AM
the cats don't squeal
the flag drops thistled
biceps princes of
the welfare barbarians
this is the end of a long siege
the good bread
will be broken

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Sign on the Dotted Line

chase the fishmonger's asthmatic truck
clogging the warren's chambers
susan sangsters lounging on the hoods
of hyundais ajiima lugging cardboard
ajashi stoop smoking mild seven‚™
scooter delivery kim chi and pizza boy
sideways under a truck a michael bay hero
when you consider it skynet only considers itself
so we say to the fish go forth and conquer
they prosper on the fourth floor of the flophouse
propped between the bathhouse and the driving range
after the funeral they confirm it you were always
better than your caste there is no substitute
for thinking but abc asia and soju come close
channel surfing past desperately seeking susan
a dubbed version of point break the distance
a truckstop on the hume highway horizon
and that piss building in your bladder

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Ballet In a Hair Shirt

A sharp little mountain peak
capped with bare rock draws hikers.
Halfway up, I unfold a map.
A complex of dense modern towns
straddles a narrow green river
with only two or three bridges
in twenty miles of urban mass.
Parade City, one of those towns,
consists mainly of an open space
ringed by streets named for generals
like Germanicus, Kosciuszko, Grant.
Folger is warped with factories,
big crosshatched rectangles hogging
the good land by the river. Stevens,
named for the poet, makes a snarl
of difficult intersections
that look impossible to pass,
much like Reading, the poet's home town.
I reach the apex of rock and stare
into the valley and suffer
vertigo as salty as the sea.
What if I've imagined a town
called Stevens, and another
called Parade City, and a third
called Folger? What if that tangle
of streets below is actually
Reading, Pennsylvania? What if
this sharp little peak is a spur
of an ordinary coal ridge
in the heart of which a fire has burned
for almost a century? Dizzy
with my own effects, I lean
over a drop of several hundred
feet and force myself to vomit,
but nothing comes up. Nothing
except the conviction that the map
folded in my pocket hasn't lied,
and the town of Stevens lies below,
an actual place of people and things
on which I'm trying to bestow
everything that's troubling me.

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To a Query

No, a quake,
downside
up to vibrations
that tell apart
the yard maple
from its bark,
inside being outside, see
that shag of brown grass
perhaps an old man's beard
show through the dirt
still hiding school children
from lessons in life sciences
whose last slowing calls
seize the essence of the matter
inside this earth
as it shakes
free of her burdens,
life races past
all attachments,
leaving you
oh but where

Posted in 31: SECRET CITIES | Tagged

The Cutting

      Waiting for the bus down the road
from the Freemont Street Experience
is like enacting the first scene from
The Power and the Glory, with Tench
trudging to the port for his ether. You keep
forgetting why you're there, and look
at the sky a lot. Instead of vultures,
overhead are helicopters taking
people to the Grand Canyon –
but they've got as little to do with you.
      It's hot, a woman announces. She's
draped in black, and wears a woollen hat
stained around the edges
with copper curls poking out
near her ears. She looks at the
sun, like there's something about it
she can't believe, but also with
resignation – like there's many things in this world
she can't believe.
Damn, it's hot.
      Sweat meanders
past the dark roots of her hair
which is the first layer of hair
under the volumetric licks
that give her head a knobbly
appearance.
      She surveys the others – perhaps
to see if any response will be forthcoming –
perhaps not. When the bus arrives
there's a sheet of cardboard across the money
repository.
      It's broke, the driver says. Happy Christmas.
      He keeps repeating
this, as the passengers heave
their legs up the steps, clutching the
handrails; gripping their sides. A blank-faced
woman is the only swift mover
and she stumbles on
as though something has taken hold of her legs and
is working them for her; an event the rest of her
body can't register. She is marked
with yellow and purple, and holds a bottle –
clunk – against the metal rail of the seat.
The bus stops, and the woman
with the curls prepares to get up;
the movement of the top parts
of her body not producing
any corresponding reaction
in the lower parts, for a certain, delayed,
period of time.
Is this Charleston? a languid voice
from somewhere, enquires.
            No. This is Sahara.
The woman with the curls is
easing herself down the stairs at a
diagonal.
      Can I get to Charleston, on this bus?
No,
Charleston is back there. It runs
the same way as Sahara.
      Oh man, I'm tripping. The response comes,
after a while. The voice tilts
forward; indecision has caused it
to become stuck, at some indeterminate point.
            You want to get out here?
Here?
            Charleston is back there.
You stay on the bus and you're getting
further away from it.

Ride the bus all day if you want.
Ain't nothing to me.
      Man, I'm tripping.
The woman with the curls

makes her way across the empty lot. This
empty lot is like no other empty lot
you've seen, because it is all the empty lots
you've seen. Cézanne has been here
and made of it something permanent, like
in the museums. In cream, and red. Barbed wire
like tumbleweed throws
a hump-shaped shadow, a sliced resemblance
of more terra firma. Cracked
concrete. Broken bottles. So
beautiful you want to weep.

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