I
Eight-thirty am.

New Years Day.

Alice lays down

flacid in heat

and hangover.
The bastard son of Alice,

in his white-walled house,

comes out to give

pale feet glass

to walk upon.
Come on Captain Cook

this time you’ll hafta

fuckin’ buy it!
He tears off clothes,

bares his scarified hide.

Takes a leak on

the landscaped garden,

Toyota, cement paths,

empty bottles against

tidy town bins.
Fifty grand cash

for these white fuckin walls

Come on white cunts!
The flatlands of Gillen

listen in a manner

to which they have

become accustomed.
“He must be mad!

He’d get three times that

on the open market!”
II
It must have looked good once,

three bedroom ex-trust

with an updated kitchen

tiled throughout,

new skylight,

brick veneer.
By nine-thirty

his half brothers

begin to feel

the heat, despite

the air conditioning.
Don’t tell me about your kids!

Our kids were there when

you raped our mothers

took away our brothers.
He wants to leave

this fucked-up country.

Swears at Alice

for letting them screw her,

for not wearing her ring.

Couldn’t make her stop,

can’t go on watching.
The gold card

in his back pocket

must have worn a hole

clean through to his skin.
Must have woken up,

washed his face white

and seen the reflection

of an empty house.
At ten-thirty he is

stoney silent.

We toss down pills

he can’t swallow.
“The mortgage must be getting to him.”