Standing in line with haircut to join the

Air Corps circa 1989 – & failing that,

a George St boarding house

(firetrap w/ kindling for stairs),

shoesole counter-dinner, chips, tomato sauce.

Squadron Leader says lost cause,

gulping schooners & ducksoup

saxophone mindwash – psychiatrist not

liking the green cut of yr silhouette?

Great art’s all very well, son,

but it’s details that count.

Old guy on telephone sobbing with drink –

Berlin on the radio, Cold War fizzle,

rocky horror midnight cinema freaks.

Y’d cut yr balls off, wldn’t you,

for the good of the nation?

The man with the bitter pill behind

the fishmarkets, four a.m. –

swallow this & see if you can’t stomach it.

Where’s home? What’s leaving for?

Flying bomber-formation

through Chinatown, kicking up dust,

butts, used cocksucks – the future

sure looks bright from here.