I'll see you maybe
In the supermarket
I don't like small talk
It's like a two-for-one
Special when you
Don't even want one
But I can small talk
Check out all the flavours
Of mini yoghurts
And kitten tasty treats
This trolley wheel
Is driving me crazy
The country music
On the tinny rafter speakers
Reminds me of my mother
In worn out 80s sneakers
Stealing bars of candy
And paying for the wrappers
I know a place
Where the introverts go
To eat in the tow
Of a streetlight
Caught in the tow of
A moonlight
I'd ask you but
It don't feel right
As this jam and
The honey aisle
I'll see you maybe
In the supermarket
Your basket building
With brand new baby things
And asking if I still
Catch the bus here
And could I help you steal
Only half at the self checkout
My little heart
Quickening behind my shirt
I don't remember
What was my answer
I know a place
Where the introverts go
To eat in the tow
Of a moonlight
Caught in the tow of
The streetlights
I'd ask you but
It don't feel right
As this jam and
The honey aisle
In the old textiles factory, above the door where the sign says "Dance", they show films you've never heard of. It's cold; there's an ice-cream tub for the leak, and assorted nana blankets across the chairs. Mine's an Onkaparinga, childhood sleepover blue.
My note in the jar pays the rent, so the artists don't have to. The chunky soup is warm at my palms. And old linoleum scent. In the screen, a woman and man coolly haul the longest of ladders. Each location taller than the last, each steadying the teetering rungs and rails for the other as they ascend.
Onwards and upwards, till a suburban dusk.
Onwards and upwards, till the moviesend.
Milling, I accidentally ask the Director's girlfriend if she knows him. How well does anyone know, she offers, and, given world events, we get on to the topic of hubrile old men. Boomer Bombers, I think she says, taking out their terror of death on coming generations. The rain on our roof is a 5/8 syncopation. She taps her spoon to it. So, what did you make of it, "The Ladderists" premiere? I liked it. Despite all our expectations, they never fell.
Onwards and upwards, till a suburban dusk.
Onwards and upwards, till the moviesend.
Onwards and upwards...
Here, the tip of my finger
Take hold the print
My whorl begins to unravel
The touch tiny thread
A spinner’s silk glint in the light
Spiraling into your palm
That I had so much feeling
I had never known
See how the tangle grows
There, the tip of your needle
What would you make of me
Now so unclothed?
On US television, the Nuclear Apocalypse
Was preceded by an APB
White and robotic from Civil Defense:
The President is safe
And he wishes you luck
Get thee to a basement
You little cover and duck
Over here, Down Under
It was Bert Newton on every channel
Before he lost all his hair
Thanking people into the night
With assorted celebrity
Except the ABC
They broadcast a marathon of RAGE
And we smiled about the nostalgia of it all
Until the lights went out
Our heads still humming to all the music
The President is safe
And he wishes you luck
Get thee to a basement
You little cover and duck
This little café’s full
Of pheromones
A faded specials board
Apostrophes in all
The wrong places, who
Kicks the tyres
In your relationship?
Changes the clocks when The change's due?
The sandwiches are made With love
It says so on the menu
And so are the drinks too
So I guess I'll have to
A tired mattress tied
To a red Torana
A dog in the back
She's a kind of a heeler
Guarding the shell she found
Of a molt cicada
Time is a wagging tail
In waiting
This little café’s full
Of pheromones
A persistent and elusive fly
On the ham and salad
The bucket mop longs
To touch a floor
Who cookie cuttered your relationship?
Who mirror mirrors in the kitchen sink?
The sausage rolls are
Made with love
It says so in the window
Sticker heart of Valentino
So I guess I'll have to
An old parking fine
On a red Torana
A dog in the back
She's a kind of a heeler
Guarding the shell she found
Of a molt cicada
Time is a wagging tail
In waiting
This little café’s full
Of pheromones
Tiny vapours over coffee cups
Who drops the plates
In your relationship?
Who crusts their thumbs
With super glue?
The special soup is made
With love
Father was always building something
so there was plenty of wood around.
It was school holidays.
My brother and I had watched
a Jesus movie one Sunday,
a chisel-jawed American playing
the Technicolor King.
Monday morning we slid some hardwood
from the stack. Nails from the peach tin.
Dad would have dug a dovetail
where the timbers crossed, but
we hadn't learnt that yet. A tight bind
of clothesline wire sufficed.
Not the squarest crucifix, but good enough
to drag along the drive.
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
Of course I was Jesus, being the eldest.
My brother with a claw hammer,
quite giant in his hand, whipping me
with a branch of eucalyptus.
I loved the way the movies trick us.
This is how they trick us:
Strip the actor's robe. Cut through close ups.
Here come the close ups:
iron nail positioned in the palm
upswing of the Roman arm
the tearful crowd, the hammer's
downward thrust. The wincing face
of the One and Only Son. My brother
had less appreciation
for the artform of montage.
That dent in my lifeline,
passed round every Christmas lunch.
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
She does Suzanne takes you
And you know this beauty
But you don't know how
She lays her river down you
You never felt so lonely
But for being there in the crowd
To catch her eye for certain
Is to feel your edges soften
To the love me, I am human
And the hold me to the rhythm
A reed among the many tonight
All quiet in the laundromats
The un-turned Open signs whisper "soon"
Cigarettes in the rainlight
Lovers walk their little love lives
"Now you never show that to me, do you?"
Here's a silent Hallelujah
Tonight I got plenty for you, brother
Sister, and for you
Love me, I am human
And the hold me to the rhythm
A reed among the many tonight
