The Summer that Fires Raged

1 February 2018

for the Artist of Artists

Leonard Cohen played,
the great poet played, touring
as I first gave myself to you
in a pour of valentines rain
where the hipster suburb we washed through
bloomed roses
Spraypainted along the bricks of
white walls amidst
traffic and the smoking news
of burning Victorian forests
that we threw a gig for
all the mohawk tattooed
dreadlocked bands
to charity the fire / victims
with no summer air con
at our makeshift bar whereat
a $5 raffle ticket got you a ‘free’
beer / circumvented the Liquor-Law
Act. that cooled subtropic night
like your negligee slipping off
post-gig in the queensized bed
-room of your all girl
permaculture sharehouse
whose bamboo garden pipes
watered banana groves where the chickens
took flight from nextdoor’s coop of
a black African-marimba-playing couple
who split like unbraided hair
when husband supped from a garden
of papaya-slice smiles, which
dripped from groupie chicks before him
for years till he tasted; as we Hallelujahed!
Cohen songs, half our Boheme friends
grabbed tickets for, while the rest graphed
alien murals through squats they’d long kicked the walls from
like leather jacketed turkeys
scratching up some nest
before studios bought their eggs
and toured them up highways
much shorter than Cohen’s
(that artist of artists)
who donated all from his gigs
to bushfires / as we
struck a match—
called
us

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