Son of Alice

By | 2 February 2001


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!”


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.”

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