They skulk in your shadow
on shoes covered in felt
so as not to make a single sound –
waiting –
for a crack in the pavement –
you trip – a slight twinge
dissipates –
you look up –
the sun slants the clouds,
it’s raining somewhere in the west …
but now the sun shines,
people hug walls,
hints of spring
seep from the luke warm radiance
left by the decay of winter sunrays –
you smile inwardly,
the skulkers have gone
until next time.
The street runs like a dark mist,
rain swiftly catches cold,
streetlights grab the sidewalk,
an embrace of stone necessity.
A hooded faceless figure
throws a still glowing cigarette
into the flowing gutter – phssst
– extinguished now
they ride the pipes together
to the underworld.
A lonely rat sniffs a roller-door,
whiskers slick against his cheeks,
I step aside and find the moon
on the other side of my umbrella.
Strains of cheerful chatter
beckon from just around the corner,
with purpose now, I stride afresh
towards the harbour of my love’s face.
Cartels lurk in systems
of glittering marble
street lamps
placed for nostalgia
no need for umbrellas
beneath glassy atriums,
mazes of coffee shop lanes
brocaded street benches
wait in arcades with no weather
for the weary and bored
department store goals
at each end
pedestrians herded
between
aspiring lives.
Today Anna Montgomery has focusing on an excellent series of writing experiment suggestions by Bernadette Mayer, an avant-garde writer known for her innovative use of language.
his warrior beard
curls around his chin
each finger
ringed with gems and wings
Black Label Society
tattoos coded symbols
of an ancient law
cloaked I follow
to catch his colours
in the mall
– my small stone
for the day …
More of SueAnn’s wonderful art can be seen here
Shadows gather,
streets lights play the blues,
a couple sits in silence,
she twirls a swizzle stick,
he flicks his fringe,
an impatient stallion
hides behind his deadpan eyes.
Across the way, he watches
as lights go on and
blinds are drawn,
one window stays open
to the eyes of the night,
“someone will cry tonight,”
he thinks…
He lights a candle,
and puts on music,
something smooth
to quell his racing pulse,
“ack hem, I’ll put the
camera on a tripod,
with zoom, we’ll catch
it all, once they enter,
we shall strike.”
She calls room service,
they’ll need sustenance
on this long night,
her knives are ready,
“tonight, someone will die,”
she thinks.
They lock their brittle eyes.
Arum lilies
don’t care for poems
in the passing tram
In a vast megalopolis
raw shit floats
in open tidal channels,
bordered by houses
built from scraps of cardboard,
corrugated iron
and striped woven plastic;
children play in slimy
courtyards crusted
with Ecoli, untroubled
by the cloying stench
of digested food.
Around the corner,
a researcher stands
in a living room
with a voice recorder
capturing a conversation
about reality TV.
An animated face
talks of many things,
he gathers grist for his
theoretical mill:
consumer culture,
late capitalist pot noodles,
Slum Dog Millionaire,
and what happened
on Big Boss last night,
he laughs, no shit.
Jack stands on the corner,
a vague recollection bending his mind,
a woman, platinum blonde,
hourglass figure, black suede pumps,
Chanel red lips
and a waft of subtle expensive tuberose,
an incongruous detail
given her Eastern European accent;
he expected something
more obvious like Poison …
A wind picks up cigarette packets,
manically tosses them into the air,
dust motes dance a fandango with moths
in the penumbra of a fluorescent street light.
Blue and white lights strobe,
breaking the shadows, wailing,
then silence but for the sounds
of an urban night.
Two suits and a skirt slam
three doors gathering
around the John Doe
like buzzards,
one flashes a camera, over and over,
the other suit blathers on a phone
stabbing the air with his fingers.
Jack
stands mesmerised
by the crime scene tape unfolding,
melting his spine into the brick wall;
he rubs his new finger print whorls
over the unfired piece in his pocket,
again he looks at his contract,
he’s been handsomely paid
without any effort.
The skirt snaps on thin latex gloves,
prods at the ooze in the gaping hole
where the blood fell out
with cotton buds,
screwing them into cylinders,
carefully. She stands arching her back,
looking up and down the alley
for something or someone
out of place.
Jack watches her look
right through him…
The skirt spots a woman gawping in glee
with a dark pink collagen mouth,
thinks of a blown up rubber doll,
and wonders whose fantasy is that.
Jack walks away, invisibly.
An apartment window opens,
an alley in the heart of Melbourne,
people bustle down the centre,
some stop for coffee at the cafe,
all seem to be carrying phones.
The sun is still low.
Sveta looks down,
stretches aware of every pore
in her fingers and toes.
A man catches her eye.
She calls him Jack.
He leans against a lamp post
in the shadows
wearing sunglasses.
Sveta clatters
down Art Deco stairs.
She slinks towards Jack
whispers conspiratorially,
“You have a choice,
a game of chance,
leave now
all your obligations
shall be discharged.
You will be completely free.”
Jack looks at Sveta
with a deep recognition
and leaves.
Jack stands at the corner
the sky deep azure
blood streaked.
A body lies crumpled,
leaking ooze, he thinks,
“Why am I still here,
what have I done today?”
He slips his hand
to his inside pocket
feels a large envelope.
Inside is the contract, signed.
For
A Portrait of Dissatisfaction
In a dudgeon, eyes twitching,
she stomps through
a lively shopping strip
on a hazy Sunday morning,
displeasure bubbling
through her scrawny hands.
Aromas of coffee
waft from a side walk cafe,
a hum of phatic words connect
into smiling conversations.
She tugs a lock of hair
escaping her tight chignon.
She spies familiar faces,
a cosy trio chatting,
eggs and bacon sizzle
in the background,
at the crossing
a car honks in frustration.
Three pairs of eyes lock
in resignation as they spot
the woman.
She sits and greets her friends,
a rictus smile with wringing hands,
delighted
with her serendipitous
encounter.
Her words hammer,
six eardrum anvils,
three faces wilt;
the conversation shrivels
as she poaches
each topic for her own,
grist for her strident soliloquy.
Marousia 