Windows

TV where a character suddenly plunges
through an upper floor window to her death.
My thoughts are drawn to the past, as usual.
I crash through a window, fire at my back.
The characters in the TV story behave badly,
like me when I madly lit those flames.
Now, with the TV off, I smell muddy grass
where I land amid splintered glass, sliced open.
I bang on a door, blood splashes in the rain,
& my neighbour, a jockey, tough guy victim
of painful falls himself, calls the fire brigade
then directs a hose through the jagged hole.
My life of pain back then, presaging doom,
a plume of black smoke, soundtrack shrill alarms,
young, scorched, a restless bane busting homes.
How might stories end? We only know they must.
With a past so bizarre who needs TV drama?
In our bedroom, cool & sweet, we talk about
all that matters, & I gaze beyond our windows,
intact so far, though fragile, liable to shatter.

Ian C Smith

 

THE LOST CITY OF GOLD

It’s the Lone Ranger, he’s in powder-blue tights
leaping at full gallop onto the bad guy.
They crash into the sagebush then
haul up and punch each other, politely taking turns.
The Lone Ranger wins. Yea!
there isn’t a crease or scuff on the powder-blue tights.
Yea! my father starts cheering and I join in.
My mother’s embarrassed, that’s the best part.
It’s Saturday night in a holiday coastal town
at the fag-end of the fifties.
The Lone Ranger explains to the town folk,
“ This mask is a symbol of Justice.” Yea!
my father and I go stamping our feet. My mother
says “Shush!” but now the whole audience
is hollering and when the Lone Ranger
creeps into the lost treasure cave and drawls,
“ Those stal-A-mites and stal-AC-tites are pure gold!”
we’re whooping and whistling for tall-in-the-saddle Goodness.
The ocean trips over its ankles on Flynn’s Beach,
the starlight takes a thousand years to fall.
I watch my father take my mother’s hand
as we mosey out after the main feature
and know them no more truthfully than caves
under the prairie--- glistening how? and who
was that masked man?

 

Craig Powell

 

The Prime Minister’s Arse is on Fire

It started small, who knows how, at first the faintest whiff,
a tiny spark, a trickle of smoke, anyone could miss.
But now it’s getting obvious, the flames are rising higher,
someone ought to tell him, the prime minister’s arse is on fire!
Perhaps it was some flatulence that met a lit cigar
in a tryst with Billy Heffernan in his chauffeured car.
Or maybe set by Hollingworth, Woolridge, Ruddock, Reith
in an accidental oversight on which he wasn’t briefed.
Yet though his arse is blazing bright the PM still denies:
“ my arse has never been nor ever will be on fire.
It’s a scurrilous media beat-up the rumour mill is passin’,
I deny any knowledge of this so called act of arson.”
But the fire alarms are clanging in the corridors of power
as senators and ministers duck and dive and cower.
With sprinklers flooding parliament and flames throughout the land
it’s plain to see as dog’s balls the fire’s out of hand.
It spread from Kirribilli all the way to Christmas Isle,
gutted Yarralumia and left a smoking pile,
it licked about the High Court, engulfed the Speaker’s Chair
and burnt its way to Woomera through Janet’s underwear.
The PM called a conference to repeat his denial:
“ the advice that I’ve been given is my arse is not on fire.”
To hose these allegations down that the truth was scuttled
I’ll turn to the Press Corps and present my rebuttal”.
“ Whoof!” A massive fireball napalmed all in sight,
the smoke was spewing black and thick, the flames lit up the night.
Parliament House imploded like a melting wedding cake
as screaming hacks fled in flames and sought the nearest Lake.
“ Crimson Christ!” cried Laurie Oakes, “the worst scenario,
the flames have reached his eyebrows and they’re about to blow.
The things are bloody tinderboxes, thick and dry and fell,
there’s fuel enough in Howard’s brows to feed the fires of Hell!”
Alas, too late - his brows went up, like Hiroshima suns,
a firestorm engulfed the land consuming everyone.
A stinking, twisted vista of smoking charred remains
‘ twas all was left from coast to coast, from mountains to the plains.
And as Austraiia slowly sank, still clinging to the mast
was Johnny Howard grinning hard as the waters cooled his arse.
“ At last the country’s unified, free from foul attacks,
at last I’m finally feeling comfortable and relaxed.”
And lest the world forget that we didn’t die in vain,
this epitaph recalls our tawdry tattered land of shame:
“ It’s an adage old as buggery that where there’s smoke there’s fire,
but just as old is one that goes: where there’s votes there’s liars.” 

 

Tug Dumbly

 

Bell

do not ask for whom the bell tolls
there is no time for questions
no time for discussions of ringing or echoes
no time for idle chitchat about resonance or chance
if you can hear it
you are too late
for whom is irrelevant
you must act before it has a chance
to say any name
you must rip out its tongue
remove it completely
it must be made incapable of even a whisper
then stuff a rag into its gaping orifice
shove it deep into the pitiful, shallow throat
if there is gagging or choking pay it no heed
be merciless, be violent, be sure
wrap a pillow round it tightly
bind it with metres of tape
then lock it in the basement cupboard
with the others and turn off the lights
if anyone comes nosing around questioning
tell them to go away immediately
tell them to leave well enough alone
tell them you are trying to help
tell them it might have been for them
or for their daughter, or their husband
mother, lover, wife
send them away, but if they persist
rip out their tongue
and repeat as above

 

Philip Norton

Princes Wharf, Hobart,
with my two-year old

I take Jack to see the fleet at the wharf -
fishermen unloading tuna
from the deep hulls of boats,
the oily, metallic-grey skin
glistening in the early light,
the glass-eyes staring
as if still alive. -
Jack watches, mesmerised
by the foreignness of it all;
two Taiwanese on deck,
three on the wharf,
their faces barely visible
behind their wet-black japaras,
and the steaming yellow-fin
hauled on taut ropes,
two at a time,
and crammed as if part of some ancient ritual
into a Hiace van. -
We watch at least fifty rise steaming
and suspended in air
until one of the fishermen gestures
for my boy to come nearer
and I snap their picture,
getting the focus wrong on Jack,
being drawn to the blister of blood
on the fish’s jaw
as it tilted forward on the man’s shoulder
fixing me in its glare.

Marc Miller

Spider Sense

He got bitten by a radioactive spider. He felt sick. He went home. A hundred-pound cannister fell off the back of a truck. He caught it in one hand. The lid fell open. Radioactive sludge poured over his head. He fell to the ground screaming. His spider-sense was tingling. He woke up in a hospital bed. He felt sick. He could hear two people arguing on the other side of town. He leapt through the window. He stuck to the wall. He crawled down to the footpath. He could hear the air moving around objects. He went home. A meteorite landed in front of him. He reached out to touch it. It burned his hand. He woke up in a hospital bed. His spider-sense was tingling. He tore the bandages from his hands. The metal chair came towards him. He flew out the window. He went home. His spider-sense was tingling. A bolt of lightning hit him. He was wearing a suit of armour. There was a voice in his head. It told him he could save the world. He felt sick. The voice told him it was his destiny. He went home. His scientist friend asked him for help. Lightning hit the cabinet filled with chemicals. They burned his skin. He started running at the speed of sound. He felt sick. He saw a man with armour like his, only black. The man tried to kill him. His spider-sense was tingling. Lasers came out of his eyes. The armoured man caught on fire. He felt sick. The armoured man flew away. He went home. A plane crashed. A building exploded. A bank was robbed. The President was kidnapped. His spider-sense was tingling. He felt sick. He tried to sleep. He couldn’t. Someone had stolen the moon.

Adam Ford

 

 

 

David Mortimer