By | 1 January 1998

Three UK years & a day long haul
to hear it strange: the Heathrow tongue
stretched flat at Kingsford-Smith
dessicated as Mascot lawns look;
fruit coughed up in DECLARE IT FOR AUSTRALIA
quarantine stalls recompressing feet
lop-sided on an interrogative lilt
& customs explanations don’t sound
pat – I’m through ARRIVALS the turnout
mambo in fruitsalad & lorikeet as if
history stops with carnivale & the state casino;
or sensing a poem here has to include bingo
jism & guilt; that it should clear a throat,
colloquial as currawongs: their call.

Cheap eat café hairs of the dog
the beach takes a bunsen
to eyestrain sand, crinklecut, whitehot
as blonde dyke glamorama crewcuts
do sushi: I didn’t inhale,
watched skaters blade the promenade
backed by spraycan art & overlooking
a kilometre of lightly salted
skins we’re delicious! Can I sting you
to wet each the other, bright as a diamanté
navel stud front reflecting at speed?
How mindful of self-aware, critical spins
on body-piercing we culminated nowhere
near the un‘important’ water, avoided junk.

Did flying south outstrip the blue pencil
granted we’re easy with an either-handed grip
being unrapped? Anything goes local style
in your face as Parramatta Road billboards
that’s the myth, struthious as gritted teeth
& eyes from wound-down windows. A ‘68
careers not past being druckfucked from the zoo
at western plains, they’re culling private demons,
angels had it with petrol fumes. Sirens
squeal at lanehog rush approaches to
the Cahill’s obligatory harbourscape:
at its fore & aft juncture less like sails than
buttocks rising from a fussy hem, operatic
prelude to dunk me, take me brash.

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