(courtesy of the White Cockatoo)
Petersham: the formerly fashionable
but now rather heavy overcoat
on the portugese tart. Tickertape ribbons
and other dictionary entries.
Lip-reading Theory of the Leisure Classes,
little Ern stumbles through the public primary
before graduating to Summer Hill Intermediate.
Spain weeps in the gutters of Footscray,
to say nothing of our serious frolic.
Closed my inanimate lids to find it real
behind the shelter sheds. I tell you
these things are real. Even
baroque Mediterranean garden furniture.
Greek quails under the flight path,
cooing softly: the girl from i perama.
Rooming houses line summer dust,
a month of pianos for Kate and Pete.
We wanted underground lighting
or even just subtext
to distinguish the last three decades
of a fallen Enlightenment.
Romance relishes the house-referential,
listening night after night
to Janet Jackson’s Alright pump
through over-priced rental walls.
Hightailing cowboys drawl
back to school, it’s fort for
or la di da, Lacan with a cute snub
neurosis warring over the inner, waning West.
Someone has to pay
or there would be no affect. Pasta dura
rather than Dürer. Crusty paraphrases
stagnant on the unclaimed meat-tray.
We purvey a crystal ball obscura,
a street stripped back, oxford-pinked.
1999 ‘found’ postcard: Hi Mum!
Didn’t inhale Paramatta Road, parked
on anarchy’s shop-floor, Birkenstocked
our way through claypot chicken,
& bought into the $5 Rashai
Frequent Diner’s Club cartel.
It’s true, global ecologies
kept us searching for the gastro-commune,
but to no avail. xxxx, E.M.
lags on the line-faltering footpaths.
December gossips between
of, whenever, and somewhat expectantly,
another tin-roofed rapport.
Next year, Lieutenant-Governor
Francis Grose will check out the real estate here,
wave to Joel in the flat above,
and set up a row of convict sweat crops.
Before you know it, it’ll even be home to
The Australian, or at the least its tidy originator.
All good & legal, so they say. Identity
flashes in. At our duplex, national pride
still gags for just one more go
at the Olympics. But why pine for the ultimate
when you can already see Ultimo?
38.0: SYDNEYPoetry Editor: Astrid Lorange
Released: 1 May 2012
Index of poems
Cover images: Vernon Ah Kee and Kim Rugg