Monday, April 11, 2005

At the Repat

I. Burnt-out Diggers

He cracked his bush-ballad back,
dropping dead suddenly
at the drop of a clip. Crack
go the Winchesters in the hazed,
oiled heat. His tin-pot's on top...
This of course means "Krieg"
amongst the private cattled-estates
and pastures speculating green. And a
chop, chop on his metal ring
ringbarking the steam, switches the click
of his spur, surveying the rib,
to his story of Eve. A butt
burnt to the lip, a yellow stain
in his dacks. His flaggy head
hoisted to the tip of his cervix.
He's to the fore of his paddocks. His locks
are breaking on a distant beach.

II. Vietnam Vets

You realise it like
you're a prop in a bad scene
on a rerun of the local
photography competition.
Once you've had
a puff of the pot
you're on the drugs,
and it's a slippery-dip run
to the rung of death;
out of beer in the pub
on a day of bad dreams
and shifting weather. - And the gun?
"It's not for you, son
it's not for you to clean." -
You're a pigeon who preens
on the balcony's slag. Today
you're one thing, tomorrow
the same, crash-coursed
in the mothball-rule of atmosphere,

singing tightly in the lees

praying them far away

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