TEXT TOWN traversals i-iv

By | 1 February 2018


A new regime and daily now we count each step –

so much for the flaneur who won’t have seen the

street sweepers voided glass attentions to detail

the stairs doused stools upturned a-nights three

parts smashed heard hours since in cool/scenic

first name basis coffeeshops count the stairs or

court the path and bless it folderol for the ages

the australian financial review waterproofed

at the foot of the rivering drive vigil posting

pet losses push on and rest upstream enact

the data see the poems whose concentrated

lists accumulate and mark modernity as my

name comes gloatingly up if steps are numb

ered distraction is too numerous to count


A delicate shot

out of the dunes

left you about ten
seconds to dive into the frame…

more than a bit of beach-worship out here

Shining the badge to esteem in a sequence mapping East –
a glass box at the blue limit

We’re still pissing
in our wetsuits …

the red and yellow breeze falling
back to our cream brick eldorado


chalking pastel fibro

up the road –

that possessed
and breathless pitch
hammer raised
to dust

pure de-cluttering


moving house where

brighter folk leave priceless art on the confused
space of a footpath

This all two trains and
a sweaty trek from the

stripped and paintless

western face of a weatherboard in December

I own I live
in the sprawl

and notational spree
and might be anywhere


listening in to

the americanisms
that go unnoticed

I own I grew up here

bought in

stayed and got out

Same pledge to postcode
inked in over the knuckles

art that’s mainly tracings

All the things you might have
been minus your inheritance


bought country road at the red x for a comp
arative song


like to see it?

Age of incredulity

Beneath the vicenarian chipboard façade charity at the door that
gives nothing boots up silver stairs the flagged duck-walk to nip
libel in the bud. sanded roads and blank semaphores and i wait
as you in a minor gridlock of mutual irresolution. most alarms
are overlooked but where a die-hard pious few out along the
weeded island spare the time (or cash) to pray for me for us
was it e’er more timely…they mumble or remind me move
ment’s blind as i pass the bank the toy shop and tabac the
sullen punters learning their place in the vip lounge. here
a mild swipe at sworn rivals pleads you rethink your plan
to happiness. leap and clap your feet if clued in. now we
cross the road for an aversion to hi vis. graffiti like civic
pride. i go home only via the above. but home too tells
curious tales…your institution or mine. how is it on an
average day sun shining the benign seems indictable…
how should the ordinary account for my incredulity.


No idling promenade


Now those shameful alerts or a broad audience for a
novel definition of alcoholism graces the promenade

where we stop and curate a casual shot and share it
emblematically waves behind and in a smitten idyll

even the police have had time for a beach drive-by
well might we referee ourselves strays are off the

chain still it’s no idling pastime paying guests sag
under shouts and military duress then the sand –


Could you go and draw a more severe line in it?
brekky on the beach through a slessorian lens

and men at their leisure flip the menu to the
shared pea or weed salad the cucina povera

which only matches an austere architecture
bathing in clinical light mini dudes on trikes

cruise on ahead prams importune at tears
and stop curate the shot…share it capitally

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