Boobs Are So Random

By | 1 December 2009

The Merkin Distraction

Man walks into bar.
Willowy Russian meanly
smiles. Contact is made.

“I'll have a double,
and one for yourself my friend.”
A code is broken.

To be understood
he tips in old currency.
Russian approaches;

bartender leaves quick,
drink and bills lonely, untouched.
He gulps. She does too.

“You fucking fucker.”
Hat askew, trailing tassells,
she's slightly wrong, keen.

“You. You have something.”
He's slightly offended now.
A nothing brigade

marches in, then out,
trailing bromance and jerky
they can't even see.

He eyes her, up, down.
A pouch rests in her meek lap,
sculpted patch of muff

hiding her true aim.
Too late, he realises.
Distracted, she fires.
 

The Gelati Imperative

Serious talking –
“religion is poetry” –
disrupts his dreaming.

He opens his eyes.
She's pointing at the window.
He can't move his head.

The Russian, Mirka:
“They all like the Before girls.
Ignore the results.”

Threatening, her mouth;
unsavoury with delight.
Cyrillic hate. Gorge

ous she may be but
none of this makes any sense.
He aches precisely,

marshmallow wound gapes.
He speaks their language, listens.
Shocked, they spin and stare

but she keeps eating:
a duty, without pleasure.
“You got shot. Not me,”

she clarifies quick.
Ocean roars majestically.
Light invades like thieves.

Industriousness
bellows from beneath his bed.
Another spoonful.

“How?” he says, his voice
clotted with enquiry. Sniffs.
He knows where he is.

Gelati longing
envelopes him. She's exhaust
ed by the task, doubt.

Then: volcanic smile.
“Found it,” she says, roll
ing the last taste, sure.

“The flavour is clue.”
In English she speaks louder.
Who is listening?

“We leave soon. Get him ready.”
A woman. A name,
she spits: “Rosemary.”
 

The Dolphin Dilemma

Sky imitates gems.
No armed spooks waiting today
on this street corner.

Still: him, lurching, sick.
Running, bucket on her head
to avoid attack

and recognition.
Misshapen rays of sunlight
pursue them also.

They're at the water.
Old souls, broken by our wants.
Despite this, with us.

Laughing or crying?
Trained for stealth and explosives
it is hard to tell.

Nonetheless, chirping
agreement, secret message
is soon organised.

Their sleek grey menace
makes her sad of their mission.
Mirka sheds a tear

for the animals
inside and outside ourselves.
“Message is end game,”

she says, loud, sniffing.
He vomits his painful Yes.
The sun takes the world.

A gleam, Rosemary,
descends on her doubt. And now,
the dolphins vanish.

Headlights. The boat ramp.
A fissure in dusk breaks free.
Boots. Guns. “They found us.”

 

Dirt Unit

In a noiseless waft,
she collects the collectors,
gathers the schemers.

Silence, the weapon.
“When the state moves quietly
it's more dangerous,”

she says, “Violence
and safety's illusory,
so practice your stealth.”

Learning on the job.
Language and culture distracts
them from Us and Them.

They belong nowhere,
to no one. Rosemary sighs
the grim surroundings,

and barely contained
joy explodes for her damp pores;
inhabits the room.

“What have we got here?”
Problems, no, conclusions reign.
The information

inhibits the room.
The Geek returns, flushed; smiling
pervy coffee stench.

“What you see there Rose,”
he exudes, sure, electric,
“is the only thing

that can save your friends.”
She stares, amid stares, amid
doubt. Can he be trusted?

[The leaders exchange
intimacies, never seen
before. Unheard of.]

Rose exchanges doubt
for hope: a new currency;
snatches photos up.

[Naked ambition,
naked limbs, torsos, countries.
They've undone the world:

moist diplomacy.]
Rose turns to the Geek and asks:
“Find Mirka now please.”

“And the Messengers?”
she asks, looking deep within.
His head slowly shakes.

She cries for the lost
and the willing and the safe.
Quick, she leaves the room.

 

If it ain't (Strad)broke …

Power of bacon.
The scent drifts to the morass
where they hide and blink

like starved animals.
Mirka and James entering
the room, worlds apart.

“Can you move Mirka?”
A loud stomach growl answers
him. And then, nothing.

He wriggles up, grunts.
The chattering of torture
accompanies pots, eggs.

Diamond eyes open.
Her back cracks like a new book
spine. Violated.

Broken teeth crumble.
She tastes pain and the season.
Broken wills, trembling.

Finally, “Yes. No.”
She adjusts expectations.
“James?” Moments. Questions

like vows, unspoken
but filling up the future.
Possibility.

“What do you reckon?
Where are we?” He asks to ask.
The different light.

Nature banished, gone.
People noise dominating.
Table animals

dumbly cluck away.
Unaware of their soon fate.
Next incarnations

gambling away now.
They realise together:
we've left the island.

Hanging, tauntingly,
mystery objects, but known.
Close, but can't reach. Still:

their faces, new names.
Peruvian passports shine
in the dawning day.

 

Darkest Peru

Rapid conclusion.
They're eating their toast and then:
a sound from outside,

thud, thud; human drip
ping from the walls, the ceiling.
The gore of rescue.

Mirka peers through gloom.
A very hard stare indeed
piggybacks on motes,

leaping the distance
like aeons in the fragile
universe – explodes

into their fragile
collective unconsciousness.
Beings on fire

with sunlight and warmth.
Their attacking attackers
propelled to the past.

“Mirka? Who?” James says.
A strange disgorging of truth
in those two questions.

But what he asks her
mind compels her to resist:
like love, the future.

Killing their own men.
Saved by their captors' captor.
A face she knows well,

transformed by fate and
the decay of blackmailing,
glides in. Not alone.

“Boobs are so random,”
comes the code phrase. Mirka and
James relax, collapse.

Their old enemy
made speechless by this vacuum
of power in which

he now resides. Grim
silent nod of release and
they're free to watch his

contempt linger in
the room like a smoking gun.
Rose walks through his ghost.

“You don't know the cost
of this debacle,” she says.
“Nor you. What I pay,”

Mirka assures her.
James recalls the bar, first drinks.
Never had a chance

to find out the truth,
or the lies, or the spaces
between such judgements.

The circle ends, be
gins. “Take them to the island.”
Stradbroke is waiting.

 

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